


A Place Where We Only Say Goodbye

by weezly14



Series: Time Loop [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, F/M, Gen, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weezly14/pseuds/weezly14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never have lain beside at all." He's served Rose Tyler coffee almost every day for a year, but he's never worked up the courage to really talk to her. Then he finds himself stuck repeating the same day a year in the past. Is this a chance at a different ending?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title, and quote in the summary, come from "What Sarah Said" by Death Cab for Cutie. Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

_love is watching someone die._

\---

            He didn’t know her, not really. Not well. Well. He knew her order. Café mocha, non-fat milk, with whipped cream and an extra shot. Some days it was two extra shots, but those were the days when the bags under her eyes were the heaviest, when her smiles were brightest—as if to compensate. Those were the days he thought she was the most beautiful.

            He knew she carried a picture of a little boy in her wallet, a small blonde thing with a smile like hers. He knew she didn’t wear a ring. He knew that on Thursdays she bought a blueberry muffin. He knew that she didn’t come in on Sundays, and that she always came alone. He knew that on Saturdays she came in the afternoon, and sat down with a book by the window; otherwise, she was there in the mornings, a to go cup on her way to work.

            He knew her name, too. Rose Tyler. Sometimes he would write it on the cup; other times he would draw it. Sometimes he would underline it or write it in cursive. Every time he wanted to add something more, but he never did.

            He didn’t know her, not really. He just wanted to. Wanted to know the story behind the little boy in her wallet, about the days when she needed two extra shots, about where she went on Sundays, about why she was alone on Saturday afternoons. He wanted—he wanted a lot of things.

            It’s a Thursday—blueberry muffin day—when she doesn’t come in.

            It’s a Friday when he sees her picture in the paper, with words like _accident_ and _tragic_ and _critical_.

            It’s a Saturday when she dies in a hospital.

            Sunday she doesn’t come in.

            (But she never comes in on Sundays, remember?)

\---

_so who’s gonna watch you die?_

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm clock. Knocks it off the stand in his haste to silence it. Pads to the bathroom. His head is splitting and he’s not sure why, but he swallows an Advil and gets ready for the day. Work’s in an hour, and she won’t be in, and he—

            It's snowing. Funny for this time of year.

He arrives five minutes early, pulls on his apron and takes his place at the register. Slow morning. He downs a shot of espresso to wake himself, and then there’s the tinkle of the bell above the door and he turns to greet the customer but the customer is _her._

            Which is impossible. Because she is dead. Died, four days ago, in a hospital. Survived by her mother and father and younger brother (the child in the photo). It was in the paper, which makes it true. Which makes her—

            “You alright, mate?”

            She’s speaking to him now. He realizes he must look strange—that he’s probably looking at her like he’s seen a ghost. Which—

            “Yeah,” he says.

            “Too much to drink?”

            “Something like that.” Is he hungover? Is he drunk? Is that why he’s hallucinating her? Because she must be a hallucination. What did he do last night and why is his head pounding?

            “Hope you get to go home soon, then,” she says, handing him her card.

            “Yeah,” he agrees, swiping it and writing her order on a cup. He needs to go home to figure out what the fuck is going on.

            She smiles kindly at him and it’s almost too much. His heart is racing, his palms are sweating and, sure, that usually happens when she smiles at him, but it’s not like that this time.

            “Anyway, happy new year,” she says, walking away, and he responds in kind automatically, before he can process what she just—

            And then he notices the music playing in the shop. And the book the person by the window is reading. And the newspaper on the table over there. And—

            “I’m sorry, what year is it?”

            “Blimey, how much did you have?” she asks with a laugh. He shrugs. She smiles again, a little softer. “2005, January the first.”

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm clock. The sound is almost deafening, and he knocks it off the stand.

            What a strange dream.

            He checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looks terrible but he feels that way, so. He splashes some water on his face, brushes his teeth, gets dressed. Work starts in an hour and he _doesn’t_ need to spend any more time thinking about Rose Tyler or the fact that he never got to know her or the fact that she’s dead or that dream he just had. So he puts thoughts of her out of his mind and gets ready and leaves his flat.

            He walks into the shop five minutes early, brushes the snow out of his hair, pulls on his apron, downs a shot of espresso, and gets ready to face the customer that just walked in.

            Rose Tyler smiles at him and it’s good there’s not a glass in his hand ‘cause it’d be in pieces on the floor right now.

\---

            His alarm clock goes off and he bolts up. He doesn’t even bother turning it off, just runs into the living room with it ringing through the apartment or maybe that ringing’s just in his ears, the sound of blood rushing about, frantic and confused and—

And he turns on the news and looks out the window and it’s Christmas lights and it’s snowing and the anchors are talking about the holiday and happy new year and—

\---

            His alarm clock goes off and he just lies there for a moment. Lets the ringing pierce the silence. After a minute or so he grabs it, switches it off, but otherwise doesn’t move.

 _2005, January the first_.

_The first._

_2005._

_January._

            But no, it is not, it is 2006, it is March the third, it is—

            Outside it’s snowing.

\---

            He wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock and he reaches out a hand to shut it off and knocks it to the floor. After picking it up and turning it off and returning it to the stand he throws on his trainers and walks down to the news agents—doesn’t even bother locking the door.

            The newspaper says January 1, 2005.

            He feels a bit like crying, standing there in the street in his pajamas and trainers, no coat despite the cold.

            He calls in sick and watches telly all day. As he falls asleep he prays to the God he’s not spoken to since primary school to end this. Or at least explain.

\---

            His alarm clock goes off and it’s snowing outside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the quote at the beginning. Or Doctor Who.

"The trouble is, you think you have time."

—-

He drags himself out of bed, gets ready, heads to the shop. Downs a shot of espresso and wishes it were something stronger, something with more of a kick. Well. A different sort of kick.

The bell above the door jingles and he sees her, and she’s beautiful.

And dead, he reminds himself.

Not yet.

He’s already ringing up her order when she reaches the counter, and she smiles at him.

“That was fast,” she says.

“What?” he asks.

“Already know my order, then?”

Shit.

“Well, I’m a quick learner.”

It’s January 1, 2005. She first started coming to the shop—when did she first start coming to the shop? He can’t remember. All the days have sort of blurred together. He can barely remember a time before she came in every day. Almost every day.

“After a week?” She smiles at him again, and she really needs to stop doing that because it makes his stomach do funny things.

“Customer is king. Or, queen, rather,” he says, and he tries to ignore the blush creeping up on his cheeks.

She doesn’t say anything else, just hands him her credit card. Rose Tyler. He swipes it and she signs the receipt and wishes him a happy new year as she walks away.

He draws a rose on her cup, and catches the smile on her face when she sees it. He’s not sure what’s going on, why he’s stuck repeating the same day over and over in the past, but if it means he gets to see her smile, well. He can live with that.

—-

He wakes up to the ringing of his alarm. Part of him wonders if it’s the clock itself that’s causing all this. If it would stop if he got a new one.

He goes to work, rings up customers and makes Rose smile again, and afterwards he buys a new alarm clock. It’s silver, one of those old fashioned ones, with the two bells at the top and the little hammer in the middle that hits them in quick succession. It’s obnoxious as anything but if it works?

Part of him wonders, though, as he climbs into bed and sets his new alarm, if he wants to go back to the present.

—-

When he wakes up in the morning his old alarm clock is the one ringing on the stand, and his new silver one is nowhere to be found. He shuts it off and goes to work. He wears a cap this morning for the first time, because it’s snowing, after all.

He smiles at her when she comes in, lets her tell him her order.

She says, “Happy new year.”

And he says, “Happy new year, Rose Tyler.”

And she looks at him funny, but not a bad funny, necessarily, but—

He wakes up to his alarm going off and a light snow starting outside and he can’t help but wonder how long he has to live this day. What needs to change for it to begin to move forward.

—-

The bell above the door jingles and she walks in, and you’d think he’d begin to find her less attractive, seeing her in the same thing every day, but he finds her more beautiful, if anything. The repetition allows him to notice something new every day. Yesterday he noticed the slight flush of her cheeks, the red at the tip of her nose. Today it’s the ways she rubs her hands together for warmth as she approaches the counter.

“Morning,” he says with a grin. She smiles at him, a tongue touched smile, and that’s new.

“Morning,” she echoes.

“What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a café mocha, non-fat with an extra shot,” she answers, pulling her wallet from her purse.

“Whipped cream?”

“Yes, please.”

He nods and rings up her order, writing on the cup as she signs the receipt. He notices her looking at the pastries.

“Would you like to add a pastry?” he asks, though he knows the answer will be no.

“Mmm. Not today,” she replies. He nods.

“Maybe tomorrow, then.”

“Maybe.”

A pause. She smiles at him again. “Happy new year.”

“Happy new year.”

She leaves.

—-

His alarm is going off. He knocks it over and shuts it off. Gets out of bed. He thinks that maybe he should keep track of how much time has passed. How many variations on this one day he’s lived through.

He pulls on the cap again and walks to work, but when she walks in it’s wrong. Or, not wrong. Different.

She’s not wearing the same clothes. He notices then that it’s not snowing out, either.

A day passed.

He feels like jumping into the air, letting out a loud whoop, but that would likely attract stares and questions and he doesn’t feel like going into why he’s so glad it’s January 2nd. Though it is a glorious day.

He must be grinning, because when she reaches the counter she smiles and asks what’s got him so chipper.

“Just—good day, today,” he replies.

“It is a rather nice day, isn’t it?”

He just nods.

“Well, because it’s such a nice day, I’m going to try one of your pastries.”

Is it Thursday?

“Brilliant!” he exclaims, and she giggles a bit. He’s sure he looks like a fool, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. “What would you like?”

“How about a blueberry muffin,” she says, and he nods and rings up her order. He writes her name in all caps today, and he can’t seem to stop smiling. She smiles back at him, though, and he’s so happy he doesn’t even contemplate the possibility that tomorrow he might wake up on January first again.

“Enjoy the muffin,” he says as he hands her the pastry bag.

“Thanks. Have a good day.”

As she leaves, it occurs to him that he’s spoken to her more in these repeated days than he ever did in his real time stream.

—-

He wakes up to his alarm. He’s not sure what the rules of this time loop thing are, but he’s come to assume that anything he adds in this time stream will disappear when it resets. He curses himself circa 2005 for not having a calendar.

It’s not snowing outside, but as he gets ready for work he has a sudden terrifying thought that maybe now January second will be on repeat. He pushes the thought aside and stops by the news agent’s on his way to work. The paper reads January third, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s moving forward. That must be a good sign. He must’ve done something right.

She walks in that morning talking on a cell phone. He rings up her order before she can reach the counter and she wordlessly hands him her credit card. He swipes it, draws a rose on her cup, and then she’s gone.

He ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach as she leaves the shop.

—-

After work he goes out and buys a calendar. Good thing about the new year is there are a lot of calendars in the shops, and as it’s the third, a lot of them are on sale.

He picks up one with stars on it. A space themed calendar, like the sort he’d had when he was a child. When he gets home he hangs it on the wall across from his bed so that it’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. He puts a red X through the first, second, and third.

As he falls asleep he thinks of Rose Tyler and wonders if this is the universe’s way of giving him a second chance with her. Because he’s worked in that coffee shop for quite some time, and served her coffee for over a year, and barely got past small talk with her. Just admired her from a distance and wished he had the courage to ask her out.

He’s always been a coward, though. Lost his whole family—everyone—and vowed never to get close to people again. Rose Tyler was no exception, but he thinks maybe he’d’ve made one for her, eventually.

All the days have blurred together and he doesn’t know how long he’s been trapped in this loop, but every time he sees her he forgets a little more that she’s going to die on February 27, 2006.

Maybe that’s the point.

(Or maybe the point is to save her.)

—-

He wakes up to the ringing of his alarm, and across the room there’s a calendar on the wall with three days marked off.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

—- 

It’s Saturday, and on Saturdays she comes by the shop in the afternoon, sits and reads by the window for a few hours.

He gets to work and goes through his shift as usual, chats with customers and writes orders on cups. It’s a cold, misty day, and when she enters the shop she’s wearing a knit cap and reading glasses. He’d almost forgotten about those.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello. Your usual?”

“Yes, please,” she responds, pulling out her wallet. He nods and takes the cash she offers. When he hands her the change she drops the coins in the tip jar. “For knowing my order so quick,” she explains. He grins.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

He writes her name in cursive on the cup and adds a swirly line underneath it. For the rest of his shift, he watches her out of the corner of his eye, sipping her coffee and reading her book.

Next week I’ll ask her what she’s reading, he tells himself.

—-

His alarm is going off. He reaches out and shuts it off.

The calendar is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Doctor Who or Harry Potter.

            It becomes a routine. He wakes up. Goes to work. Serves coffee. Sees Rose. Continues to serve coffee. Goes home. Sleeps. Wakes up.

            Repeat.

            (Repeat has never been more literal.)

\---

            The second time he reaches January second he doesn’t even celebrate, just allows himself one small smile before getting ready and heading to work.

            He wonder what would happen if he quit his job. Walked into the shop, tendered his resignation, and walked right back out. Would it reset? Or would he be allowed to build a new life from this point, a life that does not include coffee shops or Rose Tyler or that bloody alarm clock?

            He walks into the shop on January second (again) and decides that maybe he’ll try it tomorrow, if tomorrow doesn’t turn out to be January third. He pours himself a regular cup of coffee and is sipping at it when she walks in.

            “Morning,” he says. He feels like he knows her now, in a strange way. She smiles back at him and it still warms him.

            “Morning. Can I get a café mocha, nonfat milk, with an extra shot?”

            “Whipped cream?”

            He always asks, and the answer is always the same.

            “Yes, please.”

            He appreciates that she says please. And thank you. And smiles at him. Years of working at this shop, of serving people, has shown him that not all people are gracious, that not all people are kind to the people who hold jobs like his. But she is always kind, even on two extra shots days, and he loves her a little for it.

            She hands over her card and as he swipes it he notices her glance at the pastries.

            “Would you like to add a pastry?” he asks, because it’s Thursday, isn’t it, and Thursday is blueberry muffin day, and—

            “No, that’s all right, you’ve already rung me up,” she says.

            “It’s on the house,” he says without thinking. She looks surprised. “You’re fast becoming a regular. Consider it a thank you. A token of our appreciation. A bribe so you keep coming here.”

            She smiles that tongue touched smile that he hasn’t seen nearly enough, and he presses on. He’s almost got her.

            “Come on. What will it be? The cinnamon swirl? The banana nut—that’s my favorite—the blueberry?”

            “Are you sure?” she asks. He nods.

            “Yes. Now, are you going to decide or am I going to pick for you?”

            She points to the blueberry and he grins.

            “Brilliant.”

            He hands her the pastry bag as her drink is called and she smiles at him again—a soft thing, that makes his insides squirm.

            “Thanks. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

            “Yeah, definitely.”

            She grabs her coffee and goes, and turns to look at him again as she leaves the shop, and he really hopes he gets to keep this one, that he gets to continue on to tomorrow.

            Donna, who makes the coffee, says something him about having a crush. He brushes her off, but notes that this is the first time that she’s commented on it. Not in the real time stream or in any of these repeats has she caught on. He wonders if that’s good or not.

            He marks off the second on his calendar and falls asleep staring at it, like maybe if he concentrates hard enough time will move forward.

            He doesn’t dream.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm clock and the calendar is still on the wall and this time he does punch the air and let out a loud whoop. He rushes to get ready, spends extra time on his hair, and nearly skips to work.

            “What’s got into you?” Donna asks. He shrugs and pours himself a cup of coffee.

            “It’s a good day.”

            “Yeah, alright,” she says. He beams at her and thinks that maybe he ought to befriend her. He’s worked at this shop for years but never gotten close to anyone, not really. Donna’s been here—as of now, only a month or two? And he knows that their relationship won’t develop beyond polite hellos and goodbyes and the passing of cups. Maybe it should. He could do with a friend.

            He doesn’t have time to dwell on his lack of social contacts, though, because the bell above the door is ringing and Rose Tyler is walking in, and she’s on a cell phone, but she smiles at him all the same. He rings up her order and she passes him her card and there aren’t any words between them but he doesn’t mind so much. Because as she leaves she turns back to him and waves a little.

            He smiles for the rest of his shift.

\---

            If he’s being honest, it was never supposed to become a thing. He likes his job and all, but it was never supposed to be anything, not like it’s become. At one point he’d been in school. He’d done research, he’d had plans, he’d been headed toward great things.

            But then other things—real life things—happened. He lost his family. Good as lost his home. There’s nothing to go back to, not really. He left with dreams of being a great man, a scientist, a doctor, and while he was gone it all burned away, and now there’s nothing left. Except him and his memories, and he chooses not to dwell on those.

            It was a bad time, after all that, and he quit school—or, took a semester off. Saw a help wanted sign in a coffee shop window, and began working the register. It was only supposed to be temporary. Just something to get by, to help with the bills. Something to do while he got his head back, while he grieved. A distraction.

            Three years later and he was still there.

            That’s when he met Rose.

\---

            When he gets home that day he goes to his closet and pulls out the box of his old text books, his old notes and charts. The remnants of his old life. He spends the evening poring over it, surprised by how much he still remembers. Surprised by how much he misses it.

            He marks off another day on his calendar and doesn’t bother to pack the boxes again.

\---

            He wakes up.

            The sun in shining through the windows, and the angle is such that it hits him square in the face. He squints a bit and checks the clock. It’s nearly noon.

            It’s Saturday.

            He rolls out of bed and makes himself toast, turns on the telly and eats standing in the kitchen. There’s a sort of peace that’s settled itself in his bones. There’s no ringing in his ears, no headache, just the soft sound of the telly and the crunch of his toast. It’s not all dreary out, either, which only adds to his mood. He moves about his flat with an ease he hasn’t felt in—in quite some time. He takes a shower and gets ready for work and leaves early, even. Decides to take the long way, just for the walk and the chance to breathe the air. Everything about these past days, and even his life before, has felt blurred and rushed and narrow, like somewhere along the way he got tunnel vision and never quite broke from it. He walks to work and takes in the sidewalk and the sky and the people around him. It’s different, for him. Maybe that’s a good thing.

            Once he gets to work he pulls on his apron and rings up a few customers he recognizes, smiles and says hello to Donna. Then Rose is walking in and he grins at her and she smiles back and he’s going to talk to her today, he is.

            “Hello,” she says.

            “Happy Saturday,” he replies. “Your usual?”

            “Yes, please.” She pulls her wallet out of her purse and pulls the book inside out as well. He takes the money she’s offered and tries to sneak a peek at the title.

            “What are you reading?” he asks.

            “Harry Potter,” she replies, a little sheepishly. He grins.

            “Really? Which one?”

            “The first. My little brother just started it and I thought it would be a nice thing for us to talk about.”

            The boy in her wallet. Right. He smiles to himself.

            “They’re great, great books,” he tells her.

            “I like it so far. Have you read them all?”

            “Yeah, I’ve read all—” He stops. Early 2005. When did the Half-Blood Prince come out? “I’ve read all five of them. The ones that are out now. Not the sixth yet. Because it’s not . . . out . . . now.”

            He’s slowly losing his confidence and probably sounds like an idiot. She smiles at him, though, and he realizes he hasn’t given her her change back. He flashes her an apologetic smile and she puts the coins in the tip jar. Inwardly he soars.

            “Let me know, what you think of it. The book. When you’ve finished it,” he says.

            She smiles again.

            “I will. I’m Rose, by the way, what’s your name?”

            And he knows her name, of course he does, and she knows he does, too, but she’s giving it to him, not just letting him read it off her credit card, she’s offering him her name, introducing herself to him.

            “John,” he tells her. They have never introduced themselves before this. She has never known his name, at any point in time.

            He hears Donna call her name with her coffee.

            “Talk to you later then, John.”

            She sits in the chair by the window for an hour or two, and he watches her between taking care of the other customers. He’d planned to go sit with her—or ask if he could sit with her—when his shift ended, but she left before that. She did turn toward him and smile as she left, so.

            He crosses off another day on his calendar that night. It won’t reset, will it? Not now that she knows his name. Not now that they’ve talked. It can’t, can it?

            Please let it not.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. The calendar is still on the wall.

            Sunday.

            It’s the first Sunday he’d had in what counts for weeks, and the first time he won’t see her, because she never comes in on Sundays. Part of him holds onto the hope that maybe that habit didn’t start right away. Maybe she would come in today anyway. Maybe he would still see her.

            He goes to the shop and works his shift and chats a bit with Donna. She doesn’t come in, but that’s okay because tomorrow he’ll see her. Tomorrow she’ll come in and they’ll talk more and she’ll say his name again, maybe, and that’s something he’d like to get used to, hearing her say his name. He goes home and orders take out and falls asleep watching telly.

            All in all, a good day.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm and the calendar is gone. He chucks the clock across the room.

            Outside it’s snowing.

            He can’t bring himself to care about the hole he put in the wall.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. His head is pounding and it’s still snowing and the calendar is still gone and he has no idea how much time has passed, how many times he’s lived this stupid fucking day. He grabs the sharpie he’d been using on the calendar—in the kitchen now since he hasn’t bought the calendar yet and hasn’t moved the marker to his room—and marks his arm with it. Just a line, just one.

            He calls in sick and doesn’t move off the couch all day. He falls asleep.

            He wakes up in his bed, to his alarm. There’s a mark on his arm. A single line. He runs to the kitchen and grabs the sharpie, adds another.

            His head is still pounding.

            He goes to work. He sees Rose Tyler.

            She doesn’t know his name anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

            There are four lines on his arm. He wakes up to his alarm and adds a fifth, drawing it across the others.

            He hasn’t reached January second again.

\---

            His alarm clock is ringing. He shuts it off. Walks to the kitchen, grabs the sharpie. Adds a ninth line.

            Work is work. He sees Rose Tyler. She smiles at him and is as pleasant as she always is, and he tries to ignore the churning in his stomach because she still looks at him like he’s a stranger but she introduced herself to him, once, asked his name, once. It only means something to him and he wishes it meant less but it doesn’t. That’s what makes it hurt.

            Some days he talks to Donna. Some days he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong that it keeps resetting when it had been going so well. He thinks he should try harder but trying is exhausting and he keeps waking up on January first and it feels like it will never end.

            Every day he buys a calendar. The same one, the one with stars. Every night he falls asleep looking at it, the sharpie by his alarm clock.

            He wakes up to his alarm, but today the calendar is still there.

            He adds a mark to his arm, draws the line over the set of four and then pulls on his oxford. It’s probably good he has no friends. He’s not sure how he’d explain the marks on his skin.

\---

            Because he has nothing to lose and tomorrow will probably be January first again, he pulls a blueberry muffin out of the pastry case and puts it in a bag before she arrives. When she does, he rings up her order as usual and then hands it to her.

            “What’s this?” she asks.

            “A blueberry muffin,” he replies.

            “What’s it for?”

            “Well, I just thought you might like a muffin or something. You only ever order coffee, and if that’s all you have for breakfast, well that’s not very healthy, most important meal of the day and all, and—”

            And she’s smiling at him, and this one’s different, this is one he hasn’t seen before. It’s beyond the polite smiles he usually gets, not the tongue touched one he’s seen a handful of times, not the smile before a laugh, not a grin. No, this is—tender is the word that springs to mind. She’s looking at him like she’s never looked at him before, and he ducks his head a little, feels his cheeks burn pink, and maybe it’s better that she probably won’t remember this tomorrow.

            “Thank you,” she says, and it’s sincere, not just a throwaway thanks like you give the people who serve you coffee. “Blueberry’s my favorite, how’d you know?”

            He shrugs. “Lucky guess.”

            She smiles again. “I’m Rose,” she says. “What’s your name?”

            His heart soars. “John.”

            Donna calls Rose’s order but she doesn’t move. “Nice to meet you, properly, John.”

            “Yeah, you too.”

            “See you tomorrow.”

            Then she gets her coffee and leaves, giving him a small smile as she exits.

            “Oi, Spaceman.”

            He jumps slightly and turns toward Donna.

            “Spaceman?”

            “Look like you’re lost up in space, you do. Got another customer,” she tells him. He turns his attention to the customer and ignores Donna’s smirk.

            At the end of his shift Donna says, “See you tomorrow, Spaceman,” and it warms something in him. He’s got a nickname now. It’s like having a friend.

            He goes home and pulls his notes out of the closet again. He sits on the floor and reads through them, flips through his old books. Before going to sleep he moves it from the floor to the table. He returns his books to the bookshelf that has sat empty for years.

            He marks a day off on his calendar and falls asleep looking at the stars.

\---

            His alarm clock is going off. He knocks it off the stand in his haste to turn it off, and knocks the sharpie to the floor, too. Another day forward.

            He adds another line to his arm and gets ready for work.

\---

            “Morning, Spaceman,” Donna says when he gets in. he grins and pours himself a cup of coffee.

            “Morning, Donna.”

            The bell above the door jingles and Rose walks in. She’s on her phone, but he’s used to this. Whenever he reaches this day she is always on her phone. He’s learned not to take it personally.

            But a funny thing happens today because as she approaches the counter she says into it, “I’ll talk to you later, yeah? Bye.” And then hangs up. He’s momentarily stunned—he doesn’t normally talk to her on this day—and she smiles at him.

            “Morning, John,” she says. He grins probably wider than he should because she’s called him by his name and that doesn’t happen, especially not on January third.

            “Morning, Rose,” he greets. “Your usual?”

            “Yep, but no muffin today. Think I’ll make that a once a week thing.”

            “A Thursday thing?”

            She grins. “Yeah, a Thursday thing.”

            He smiles and nods, draws a rose on her cup and hands it off to Donna, who rolls her eyes at him. He ignores her and rings up the order.

            Her phone rings as he hands her her change, and she says, “See you tomorrow, John,” before answering and going to pick up her coffee from Donna.

            “Yeah, see ya,” he says quietly as she leaves. The bells above the door jingle and she’s gone.

            “You going to ask her out, then?” Donna asks. He jumps at the question.

            “What?”

            She rolls her eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

            “She’s just a customer,” he says. Which is so far from the truth. Rose Tyler hasn’t been just anyone for quite some time. Donna seems to understand a little, because she makes a disbelieving sound.

            “Yeah, all right.”

            She doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the day, though, which he’s grateful for.

            But it’s strange. He has a friend, sort of, in Donna. Rose knows his name now. Has even called him by his name—got off the phone so she could speak to him today. It all makes him feel happier than he’s felt in a long time, and he crosses another day off his calendar with something like hope. Tomorrow has to be Saturday, the universe couldn’t possibly take him back again. He’s making progress now.

            He wakes up to his alarm and the calendar is still on the wall and he doesn’t even care that he’s awake at 6:30 in the morning when he hasn’t got work until two.

\---

            It’s a beautiful day but he can’t wear short sleeves because it’s still winter and he’s got marks all over his arms. When he showers they fade a bit but he always fills them back in. It’s the only proof he has that this is happening, that he’s not crazy, and he’s glad it’s winter because he doesn’t know how he’d explain wearing long sleeves in the summer.

            He doesn’t let himself wonder what will happen if this time he keeps moving, if it doesn’t reset anymore and he just keeps going forward.

            Martha’s working with him today, for the first part of his shift at least, and she smiles at him and says hello when he gets in. She’s nice, Martha. He doesn’t know her that well but sometimes when he’s feeling particularly knackered she’ll hand him a cup of coffee, like she knows he needs it. He thinks she’s a medical student, but they don’t ever really talk.

            He lets his mind wander as he works, ringing up customers and sipping from a bottle of water. It’s a great day out. He’s glancing out the window and he sees Rose walk up and he grins.

            “Hi, John,” she greets, and God, he loves that she does that now.

            “Hello. Nice day, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah, it is,” she says. He’s already rung up her order and is writing her name in cursive on the cup as she pulls out her wallet. “You stuck in here all day?”

            “Yeah. Well, I only just started my shift, so I had the morning to spend outside.”

            “Did you?”

            “Went for a walk, yeah. You?”

            “Hung out with my little brother.”

            “Sounds nice.” He smiles and hands her her change. “Have a good day.”

            “Yeah, you, too,” she says, and then she’s getting her coffee from Martha and sitting by the window. She pulls out a book and it’s too far for him to make out the cover but last time it’d been Harry Potter.

            Every time he’s gotten this far it’s reset. Every time he’s made some excuse not to go talk to her further, some promise to himself that next time, next week, any day but today, any time but right now. And every time he goes home after not having taken the chance and he wakes up on January first again.

            He helps a few more customers and the shop is pretty quiet and he tells Martha he’s taking his break. He figures she can work the register if anyone comes in, and if it gets busy he’ll start working again.

            But right now? Right now he’s going to go talk to Rose Tyler.

\---

            “Do you mind if I—” he asks, holding a cup of coffee in hand and motioning to the chair across from her. She looks up from her book and smiles.

            “No, not at all.”

            He smiles and sits. Sips from his coffee. He’s made it this far. Now he just has to talk.

            “What are you reading?”

            See? Easy questions. Start slow. This isn’t that bad.

            “Harry Potter,” she replies, just like last time. She seems a little embarrassed by it, but he rushes to reassure her.

            “Brilliant! Fantastic! Harry Potter, that’s—that’s a great book,” he says, maybe a little too enthusiastically, but she’s smiling for real now.

            “Yeah, I quite like it. My little brother started reading them, and I figured it’d be a nice thing to share with him.”

            “Yeah,” he agrees.

            “So you’ve read them all?”

            “Well, only the ones that are out. There’s going to be seven, you know.”

            “I’ve heard. I’m only on the first.”

            “And you like it so far?”

            “I do.”

            “Good, that’s—that’s good, yeah. Good to like what you’re reading.”

            She nods, and a silence develops, and he flounders. What else is he supposed to say? Keep on this subject? Switch to another topic? What topic? What does he say? Is he disturbing her? Perhaps she wants to read in peace and now he’s gone and ruined it and—

            “You read anything good lately?” she asks, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil. Or, perhaps aware of it and giving him a way out. Bless her.

            “No, not really,” he says truthfully. He used to read a lot, back when he was in school. His textbooks, sure, but also just for fun. He’d spend hours in the library. Browse in every bookstore he came across. But then after everything that happened he just sort of . . . stopped.

            “No?”

            He shakes his head. “Used to, but haven’t really—for a while. Except Harry Potter.”

            He remembers pre-ordering the sixth book, seeing it on his doorstep, opening it and not leaving his flat ‘til he’d finished it. Honestly, it’d been one of the bright spots in his life. Aside from seeing Rose at work. But that’s a past—future—that’s gone now, and he can’t tell her about it.

            She nods. The bell above the door jingles and a group walks in. He smiles apologetically at her and stands.

            “I should get back to work, but it was nice, talking to you, Rose.”

            He so rarely actually says her name, he realizes. He likes the way it feels on his tongue. He should say it more often, he decides.

            “Yeah, you too,” Rose says. He smiles again and heads back to the register. Martha gives him a strange look that he doesn’t understand but he ignores it and turns his attention to the customers, recommending drinks and pushing pastries. He sees Rose watching him out of the corner of his eye and he hopes he doesn’t start blushing under her gaze.

            Donna comes in for her shift, relieving Martha, and Martha doesn’t even say goodbye to him like she usually does. He hopes everything is all right. Is she not feeling well?

            Rose leaves not long after that, giving him a small wave as she exits. He returns it and smiles to himself.

            “Yeah, you don’t fancy her all right,” Donna remarks. He doesn’t even respond.

\---

            The library closes early on Saturday, which he learns because he walks there after work and it’s closed. It’s closed Sunday, too.

            He walks back to his flat and when he arrives he looks at the books he just put back on the shelf. They’re all older, things he’s already read. He pulls one out at random, though, sits on the couch and starts reading.

            He falls asleep and doesn’t dream. (He can’t remember the last time he dreamed.)

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. Only he’s still on the couch. Sunday. He won’t see her today, probably.

            He goes to work. Chats with Donna. Makes himself dinner (something he’s not done in a long time, preferring take out or just toast, which doesn’t count).

            He adds another mark to his arm and crosses off another day on the calendar and goes to bed early.

            The alarm rings in the morning and the calendar is still there. Monday.

\---

            It’s been a week. Well. A little more. It’s Thursday. Eight days. Eight days he’s had of time moving forward, no stops, no resets. It’s blueberry muffin day and he’s chatted with Rose and she’s greeted him by name every day this week. He went to the library and bought groceries and laughed with Donna yesterday and it feels new, it feels like progress, it feels like the shoe’s about to drop because it’s going too well, how can it continue to go this well?

            He’s sipping at coffee though he feels more awake than he has in years when she walks in. It’s blueberry muffin day, yes, but he can see that it’s also a two extra shots day. The first two extra shots day he’s experienced this time around.

            She smiles at him when she reaches the counter but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

            “Morning, John,” she says. He frowns.

            “Everything all right?” he asks.

            “Yeah, ‘m fine, just tired,” she replies. “Make it two extra shots today, yeah?”

            He nods and puts in the order, grabs her a blueberry muffin without her even having to ask, and takes the card she offers him.

            He writes her name and draws a rose around it, too, swirling the letters and the stem together. Then he adds a smiley face. It might be juvenile but she’s got bags under her eyes and clearly didn’t sleep much, if at all, last night. He doesn’t know her well enough to ask further, or offer any real help, but he can do this for her, he can give her a muffin and coffee and make her name look nice on the cup. He can offer her a smile and hope it means something to her.

            “Have a good day, Rose,” he tells her. She nods a bit, smiles. Grabs her coffee from Donna and leaves. The bells above the door jingle. He sighs. Donna doesn’t comment but he can feel her holding back.

            Eight days he’s lived this life, this version. He wonders if he’ll make it to nine.

\---

            He wakes up to the sound of his alarm. The calendar is still there. It’s snowing outside, though. Again. He makes a mark on his arm and gets ready for work, pulling on a cap before he leaves.

            Donna smiles at him apologetically when he gets in.

            “You just missed her, Spaceman.”

            “What?”

            “Rose, she already came by.”

            His heart sinks. Donna reads it on his face and hands him a cup of coffee with a pat on his shoulder. He nods his thanks and goes through his shift as normal. It’s going to reset, it’s going to reset, this whole week, he’s going to lose it, he’s going to lose her, _again_ , he’s—

            The bells above the door jingle and she walks in. Only there’s a little boy with her, a little boy who looks familiar.

            “Hey,” she says.

            “Hi,” he says. There’s a brief pause.

            “This is my brother, Tony.”

            The little boy—probably around 8—smiles at him and waves.

            “Hello,” John tells him. “What would you like?”

            “Mmm, hot chocolate.”

            “Please,” Rose adds.

            Tony rolls his eyes. “Please.”

            John nods and writes it on a cup. He writes Tony in all caps.

            “And for you?” he asks Rose.

            “I think I’ll have a hot chocolate as well.”

            He nods and writes her name on a cup in cursive.

            “Missed you this morning,” he says without looking at her as he makes change. She doesn’t owe him an explanation but he still wants one.

            “Yeah, was in earlier than usual. Had to pick this one up,” she explains. He nods.

            “Enjoy your cocoa,” he says as he hands her the money. She smiles softly.

            “Thanks.”

            She and Tony don’t stay, just grab their drinks and go. Tony turns around and waves at him as they leave, and John waves back.

            There’s something unsettling about this day, and he wants nothing more than to go home and curl up on the couch and sleep. When his shift ends half an hour later he is grateful, and he goes home and goes just that. He marks another day on his calendar but it feels useless. It’s going to reset. He will wake up tomorrow on January first. Again.

            He falls asleep looking at the stars. By now he’s memorized the picture for January. He wonders when he’ll see February. If he’ll see it.

\---

            He wakes up to the sound of his alarm, and he’s about to chuck it across the room again when he notices the calendar is still there.

            Saturday.

            He sighs in relief.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are moving forward! I'm really enjoying writing this and I hope you're enjoying reading it. Not sure how long it's gonna be but I think we've got quite a bit more to get through. In this chapter: more backstory! New character!
> 
> Disclaimer: Still don't own Doctor Who.

            It’s not a particularly nice day out, but he leaves his flat early and takes the long way to work. Actually, takes it a step farther—walks past the university. His old university. Technically still his. They email him at the start of each term to ask him questions like would he like to register for classes?

            Usually he ignores them. Sometimes he writes back. No, not this semester. Next semester.

            He’s been saying next semester for three years, but today he walks past the North Gate, sees some students wandering about with their bags and books, heads down, earbuds in.

            It’s unexpected, but he finds himself missing it, a little.

            He doesn’t stop, though. Just keeps walking. He made his choice.

            (But if this ordeal has taught him anything, it’s second chances.)

            (And third and fourth and however many marks he’s got on his arm now.)

\---

            “Hello, Martha,” he says brightly when he gets to the shop. She smiles tightly at him, and he wonders what he did wrong. She seems upset somehow. He’s about to ask when the bells above the door jingle and Rose walks in.

            “Hey, John,” she says.

            “Good afternoon, Rose,” he greets. “What’ll you have today?”

            “My usual.”

            “No hot chocolate?”

            “Not today, thanks. Tony did like it, though, so you’ll probably see him again soon,” she tells him. He grins.

            “Brilliant!”

            He draws snowflakes next to her name even though it’s not snowing and passes the cup off to Martha before ringing up the order.

            “Any weekend plans?” Rose asks him. He freezes for a moment. Is it an honest question or is it leading somewhere? This is a step beyond casual words between a cashier and a customer. He panics and tries not to let it show.

            “No—no plans, just, you know. Work. Here. Maybe—maybe a walk, or—you know, see what’s on telly.”

            How daft is he?

            “You?”

            He almost doesn’t want to know. What if she’s got a date or something?

            God. What if she has a _boyfriend_?

            “Not really. Might meet up with some friends later at the pub.”

            “That’s always fun,” he says, as though he has friends or goes to pubs. He hasn’t done that since—well, since he was a teenager, back home, when he and Harold would—

            He doesn’t let himself go down that path.

            “Yeah, should be.”

            A pause. He’s already given her her change. There’s no reason for her to remain at the counter other than to talk to him. But she hasn’t moved yet. His heart stutters in anticipation. This is new.

            “You still reading Harry Potter?” he asks.

            “Yeah. Almost done.”

            He grins again and she smiles the tongue touched smile and it makes him feel lighter than he already does.

            “Let me know what you think, when you’ve finished it.”

            “We can compare notes,” she jokes.

            “Exactly.”

            They just sort of smile at each other for a moment, and then Martha’s calling Rose’s name (a bit harshly, if his ears don’t deceive him), and she’s getting her cup and going to sit down.

            He gets the feeling that Martha’s cross with him for chatting with Rose, but he doesn’t understand why, so he decides not to take his break to chat with Rose further until Donna gets in and relieves her.

            He’s sure to say goodbye to Martha, though, when she leaves. Donna gives him a funny look and he doesn’t understand that, either, but then he’s pouring himself a coffee and telling her he’s taking his break and then he’s standing in front of Rose again and asking if she minds if he sits. She shakes her head and puts the book down.

            It’s a little awkward because they haven’t spoken that much, but it’s comfortable enough, and he makes her laugh at one point, and it’s his favorite sound, he decides.

            “Oi, Spaceman!”

            He looks up. Donna looks a bit harried and there’s a queue formed in front of the register and he realizes his ten minute break went on for nearly forty-five minutes.

            “Right, sorry, be right there!” he calls across the store. “Sorry, have to get back to work, but—”

            “No, don’t let me keep you,” Rose says.

            “Thanks for, um.” Where was he going with this sentence? “For chatting. With me.” He feels like an idiot. He’s a physicist for God’s sake—or he was—yet she turns him into a—

            She smiles. “We should do this more often. But you should get to work.”

            “Absolutely! Yeah, we should—”

            “Spaceman!”

            “Right. Later.”

            He rushes back to the register and tries to charm the irritated customers, which mostly works, and sometimes he’ll sneak glances at her. She waves at him when she leaves and he waves back and the customer he’s helping does not look amused but whatever.

            After the crowd has died down a bit and he’s leaning against the back counter, Donna comes up next to him.

            “What was that with Martha, earlier?” she asks. He shrugs.

            “Dunno. She seemed upset with me but I can’t figure what I did.”

            “You know she fancies you, right?”

            “ _What?_ ”

            “You really are daft aren’t you?”

            He splutters.

            “You were all flirty with Rose weren’t you?”

            “I’m not _flirty_ , I—”

            “I don’t know who you think you’re selling that to but no one’s buying it.”

            “I was talking with her, yes, when she came in, but I always—”

            “So when you going to ask her out, hmm?”

            “I—”

            “Pretty girl like that, she’s not going to wait forever.”

            “I don’t even know—she could be dating for all I know, I’m just—we’re just friendly.”

            Donna rolls her eyes at him again and he bristles.

            “It’s none of your concern.”

            “It is when you’re doing it right under my nose. We’ve worked together a while now, John, and you’re—you’re different, now. Ever since she started coming in.”

            “Is that a bad thing?”

            “No,” she says. “I just think—if you’re like this, just talking to her, how much more if—”

            “I’m not—it’s not like that. I just want to get to know her.”

            “Then get to know her! Ask her out for coffee! Or dinner, she’s in here enough, change a scenery might be good for you both.”

            He doesn’t answer but luckily a customer walks in then.

            “I’m just saying,” Donna says, holding her hands up. “I’m rooting for you, mate.”

            He hugs her suddenly, and she hits him but there’s something fond in her eyes.

            It’s been a long time since the last time he had a proper mate.

\---

            When he gets home from work he cooks himself dinner and looks up the university course catalogue. There’s a week before classes start.

            He marks off a day on his calendar and leaves the window open on his computer.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. The calendar is still there. He marks his arm and looks at the catalogue again before going to work.

            Sunday means no Rose, but he chats with Donna. He learns she’s seeing a bloke called Lee. He’s never been to the shop, which John thinks is a travesty. (“Are you ashamed of our product, Donna?”) He chats with a few other regulars he recognizes. There’s this lovely woman, Sarah Jane, who comes in not quite every day, but often enough that he knows her order. She’s got a boy, Luke, and he’s a good kid, comes in sometimes by himself, too. They usually come in on Sundays, so he sees them and makes an effort to talk to them. He says hello to Rory, who’s a med student with Martha, only John thinks he’s studying to be a nurse, not a doctor.

            He walks past the university again on his way home. He doesn’t stop, but when he gets home he emails his advisor—or, the professor who’d been his advisor before he left—and asks if he can come by.

            He goes to bed without checking for a response, marking another day off his calendar. A week and a half. A week and a half and he and Rose are almost friends, and Donna _is_ his friend, and it’s like the fog he’s been living under that he hadn’t even realized he’d been living under is starting to lift.

            He falls asleep facing the window. Gets a glimpse of real stars before he nods off.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. It’s snowing outside. He panics, but then he sees the calendar is still there. He sits for a moment, lets his heart rate return to normal, then draws another line across his skin. It’s a bit unbalanced, he notices, with these marks only on his left forearm. Tomorrow he’ll start on the right side.

            He walks the short way to the shop because it’s cold and snowing, and Donna smiles at him when he comes in.

            There’s a line of people already, and he’s glad he got in a bit early. Usually Donna works by herself until he starts his shift, because it usually isn’t crowded when the shop first opens, but today seems to be an exception and she seems a bit frazzled.

            He doesn’t even notice Rose come in because he’s had customer after customer with no break between but suddenly she’s in front of him and he lets out a small sigh of relief.

            “Hi,” he says.

            “Crazy morning?”

            “Bit, yeah. Nothing we can’t handle, right, Donna?”

            “Speak for yourself.”

            He grins at Rose and takes her credit card. He just writes her name on the cup today, no drawing—not enough time—and he’s already looking to his next customer.

            “See you tomorrow, John,” she says, stepping away to wait for her coffee. He smiles apologetically at her as he rings up the next order.

            As much as he wishes he could’ve talked to her more, he enjoys the busyness of the shop. It keeps him alert, keeps him on his toes. It’s thrilling, and not a lot of things have been thrilling lately. Except for his budding relationship with Rose.

            He grins to himself at the thought. They have a relationship now, a proper one, young though it may be. One that goes beyond the standard cashier-customer one they had before.

            When he gets back to his flat there’s an email from his advisor, inviting him for tea to discuss his options. He writes back and suddenly he has plans after work on Wednesday.

            It doesn’t even occur to him to wonder if he’ll make it that far.

\---

            Harriet Jones started out studying and teaching politics, but seemingly overnight she completely switched gears and went on to become one of the leading theoretical astrophysicists at the university and, indeed, in the country. He’d been lucky to study under her. No one had been more resistant to his “semester off” than her. He’d worked with her first as an undergrad, and then when he became a doctoral student they grew closer. She seemed to know he wouldn’t be back for quite some time when he left. At the time he hadn’t cared about her concern, he’d been so deep in his own sorrow, but now he wishes he’d appreciated it more, listened, let her help.

            Going into the meeting he was a little uncertain. He’d all but ignored her for three years. Would she hold it against him?

            “My doctor,” she says as soon as she sees him, wrapping him in a hug. She’d called him that. Doctor. “John Smith is too average for such a bright man as you,” she’d explained the first time she called him that, and he’d blushed a bit, but it was nice, to have someone believe in him so much.

            It warmed him that she was calling him that now, all these years later.

            “Professor,” he says with a grin.

            “We’ve missed you,” she said after they’d sat and ordered their tea.

            He ducked his head, shame filling him. How had he let it get this bad? How had he wasted three years, doing nothing but serving coffee and walking around in a daze? He liked his job, sure. But how had he so completely lost himself?

            (Because he lost them. His family, his friends, his home. Gone.)

            “I’ve missed you lot as well,” he mutters.

            “Now, now, none of that. I knew you’d come back.”

            “Really?”

            “Of course. Only a matter of time. Sure, I worried. But you, Doctor? I knew you’d see sense eventually.”

            “So I can come back?”

            “Of course!”

            The rest of the evening is spent catching up and working out the logistics of his return to university. He refuses to give up his job, so he’d only be a part-time student, but he didn’t mind. He’d have his mornings with Rose and his afternoons and evenings at school. It would take longer to get his degree, but he was going for it again. Finally. After all this time, he was going back. Moving forward. Truly.

            He forgets to mark off the day on his calendar.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm, grabs the sharpie as he shuts it off, and adds a line to his right arm. It’s still unbalanced but less so.

            When he gets to work Donna’s waiting with a cup of coffee for him. He grins as he tells her that he’s going back to school.

            “I didn’t know you were still in school,” she says.

            “Well, I took some time off. Getting my doctorate.”

            “Expect you’ll be wanting us to call you doctor, then?” she teases.

            “Well, if you insist.”

            She rolls her eyes but she’s still smiling. “That’s really great, John.”

            It is, isn’t it? He feels great. Better than he’s felt in years.

            When Rose comes in he feels his heart skip and it’s stupid, isn’t it, that she still has this effect on him, but she absolutely does. She’s beautiful, and it’s not just physical—it’s this kindness she has to her, that he noticed even before, in the year that isn’t anymore when all they did was exchange pleantries. She was always kind, always polite, always offered him a smile. Held the door for other customers. He’s so taken with her and he knows he barely has skimmed the surface as far as knowing Rose Tyler goes, and he wants to know it all.

            “You look pleased,” she says when he reaches the counter.

            “It’s a good day,” he replies. He rings up her order and grabs her blueberry muffin out of the case.

            “Yeah? What makes it so great?” she asks. He shrugs. Their fingers brush as he hands her the pastry bag and it sends tingles through him. He suddenly wants very much to hold her hand.

            “Would you like to go out with me this weekend?” he asks.

            He hears Donna drop the cup. Dimly he hopes that there wasn’t any coffee in it so they don’t have to mop. Then he realizes what he’s just said.

            He’s just asked Rose Tyler on a date.

            A _date._

            He goes to backpedal, apologize, nevermind I was just—

            “Yeah,” she says, and she seems a bit shocked, too, but she nods. “Yeah, all right.”

            “Yeah?”

            She nods again and smiles. He beams. His heart feels like it might burst, and he wishes he had two to better contain all that he’s feeling in this moment.

            “Brilliant! Well, um, I’ll—” He drops off. What now? He doesn’t have any sort of plan. Or reservations—should he make reservations? He has to plan a date now. He has to pick a date. “Does—does Friday, or Saturday—”

            “Friday works,” she says.

            Friday. That gives him a day. Over 24 hours. Okay. He can do that.

            “Okay. Friday. I’ll, um. I’ll—can I call you?”

            “Yeah, of course, let me just—” she searches her bag for a piece of paper and he grabs a pen from beside the register and hands it to her, and then she’s grabbing his hand and writing the numbers there on his skin and it feels like he’s on fire where she’s touching him, like all the air’s gone out of the room.

            Donna brings Rose’s coffee over and hands it to her when she finishes writing.

            “Thanks,” she says.

            “No problem,” Donna replies, remaining by his side.

            Rose looks at him.

            “See you later?”

            Donna elbows his side. Right, he should respond.

            “Yeah, see ya,” he says, coming back to himself. She smiles and then leaves. He doesn’t even bother to pretend not to watch her go.

            Donna hugs him as soon as Rose is out of sight. “Good job, Spaceman.”

            He has a date, a proper date, with Rose Tyler. He feels like he’s flying.

\---

            When he gets home he starts to plan his date with Rose, and he realizes that, for all the time he’s spent with her—around her—he doesn’t actually know her. He knows how she takes her coffee, what kind of muffin she likes. He knows she reads and enjoys family. Aside from that, though, nothing. At least, nothing that would help him right now.

            Does he take her to a fancy dinner or something more casual? Just dinner, or should they see a film, too, or go dancing? (No, not dancing. He doesn’t dance. The world might end if he dances.) Should he plan some sort of elaborate evening, or just pick her up and see what happens? He has a day to figure it out. Less, really, because he needs to call her and tell her what time to expect him.

            Wait. Should they meet wherever they’re going? No, he wants to do this right. He wants to pick her up, bring her flowers. Is that too forward? What if she’s not comfortable giving out her address?

            He’s pacing about in his flat and he wishes he had Donna’s phone number so he could call and ask for advice. He doesn’t, though, so he’s on his own.

            From the top. He wants to pick her up at her flat. Bring her flowers. Not roses because he’s sure every bloke who’s ever taken her out has done that. He’ll have to find something else.

            They should get dinner. Yes. He’ll come back to that one later for specifics.

            After dinner . . . ?

            He paces a bit more before pulling out his phone and dialing her number. His hands are shaking but he ignores that, or tries to. She answers on the fourth ring.

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            “Hi, Rose? It’s John. From the shop, from the coffee—”

            “ _John, hi!_ ”

            “Hi.” He’s said that already. Whatever. “So I—I’m calling about tomorrow. If you’d still like to go out tomorrow.”

            “ _Yeah, I would_.”

            “Good, good, that’s—good, yeah. So, um, I could—could I pick you up at 6? Would that work?”

            _“Six should work, yeah_.”

            “Fantastic. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says.

            “ _Don’t you need my address if you’re going to pick me up?_ ” She sounds amused.

            “Right, yes, of course.”

            He scrambles for a piece of paper and writes down the address she tells him, and then he’s awkwardly saying goodbye and hanging up and collapsing on the couch.

            It’s going to be good, it’s going to—it’s going to happen, at least.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm ringing in the other room but he’s on the couch. Time has passed. It’s Friday. Friday. Date night.

            God, what has he gotten himself into.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The date! (Part 1.) Hopefully I'll get to update again soon but I'm moving so things might be crazy the next few days. But thanks everyone who's reading! Hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.

            His alarm is going off and he really hates the sound of it. It shuts it off, grabs the sharpie and draws a line on his arm. It’s mostly washed off, but he can still see traces of Rose’s phone number on his hand, and it makes him smile.

            He feels like a teenager, all jittery and sweaty palms and giddy excitement. He takes extra care picking out his work outfit (same as always, an oxford and jeans, but he spends a ridiculous amount of time picking his socks. He briefly considers scrubbing his white trainers clean but that seems excessive so he doesn’t) and then he’s walking to work. Part of him wishes the first time he’d see Rose today would be for their date, but another part of him is glad he’ll get to see her this morning as well, because he always looks forward to seeing her.

            The shop is practically empty when he gets in.

            “Big day today,” Donna remarks. He grins. The bell above the door jingles and he turns to greet Rose but it isn’t her. He tries not to let his smile fade too noticeably as he serves this customer. A few more trickle in and his head darts to the door every time but every time it isn’t her and he’s starting to worry she’s not coming in today, that he’s fucked it all up and that he’ll never see her again, when he hears the bell and she appears. She smiles at him and his heart skips.

            “Hello,” he says.

            “Hi,” she replies.

            How many times has he seen her? How many times has he served her coffee? Countless mornings he has brushed fingers with her, smiled at her, said hello to her. He’s not sure how often he’s seen her walk through that door, with various scarves or coats or jackets. How many times he has repeated that one day. And to think that all of it was leading to this moment. Or, not this moment, necessarily, because this moment is, in the grand scheme of things, not a grand moment or an important moment or an extraordinary moment. It is just a moment in time where he is smiling at her and she is smiling at him, just like any other morning.

            But she knows his name now, they have had conversations now, they are going on a date now. He doesn’t care about what led up to it, how long it has taken; it is enough that it’s happening, finally.

            “Your usual?” he asks, just to have something to say.

            “Yes, please,” she replies.

            Donna appears then and hands Rose a cup of coffee.

            “It’s on the house this morning,” she explains. She elbows him in the side. “Right?”

            “Right, yes, of course. On the house.” He grins. Rose seems a bit uncertain, but takes the cup anyway.

            “Thank you. What’s your name? I don’t think we’ve formally met yet,” Rose says to Donna.

            “Donna Noble. My grandfather owns this shop.”

            “Really?” Rose says.

            “Really?” John echoes. Donna just stares at him.

            “Are you from Mars or something?”

            “I’m—I’m not—I’m not from Mars,” he sputters. She rolls her eyes and shares a look with Rose, who giggles.

            “Well, thank you for the coffee. Tell your grandfather I love this place,” Rose says. She drops a few bills in the tip jar and John’s heart swells again because she’s just so good and kind and beautiful and—

            “I will. See you around, Rose,” Donna answers, startling him out of his thoughts. She gives him a meaningful look he doesn’t understand and then leaves them.

            He looks at Rose. His heart is beating faster than it should and he wishes again he had two to contain all the feelings he has for her.

            “So, um, I’ll see you tonight?” he asks. His throat is dry and she’s already taken a sip of her coffee and there’s a lipstick imprint on the cup that’s far too distracting.

            “Yeah.”

            “Fantastic.”

            She smiles at him and he could just stand here and look at her all day but the bell above the door is ringing and she’s moving away from the counter.

            “Bye, John.”

            “I’ll see you later,” he calls. She’s at the door by now but she turns.

            “Not if I see you first.” And she’s grinning and then she’s gone and he doesn’t even know how to respond to that, he’s just sort of standing there like a gaping fish, probably, and there’s a customer in front of him but Rose was flirting with him and she’s going out with him tonight and he wonders what her lips would feel like on his and—

            “I’ll take a large house blend, cream, no sugar.”

            He turns his attention back to the task at hand.

            “Right, yeah. Anything else?”

\---

            He gets back to his flat at 3:30. He has two and a half hours. Well, two hours, because he needs to stop and get flowers and make sure he’s there on time.

            He showers, scrubbing the lines off his skin, scrubbing her number from his hand. Brushes his teeth, flosses, and then lays out all his clothes on his bed.

            He doesn’t have many, honestly. A couple old suits. A scarf he quite liked when he was younger that he hasn’t worn for several years. An outfit that looks a bit clownish but he’d found wonderful in his youth. A cravat. A bowtie. An old leather jacket. Some jumpers. A couple henleys. A few oxfords. Two ties.

            He pulls out a brown and blue pinstriped suit he can’t remember ever wearing (he probably got it on a whim and then lost it in the wardrobe), a fresh oxford, and a tie. He contemplates dress shoes but sticks with his white trainers. (This time he does wet a rag and wipe them down a bit, though, which is ridiculous but he’s nervous and wants to make a good impression and what will Rose think if he shows up to her flat with filthy trainers on?)

            He spends far too much time on his hair, running his hands through it, adding gel, trying to get to stick up just so. There’s a moment when he thinks he should ditch the suit—he looks too dressed up, doesn’t he, pinstripes and a tie—but no, he likes it. He grabs his jacket on the way out and leaves his flat a full ten minutes earlier than he’d planned.

\---

            The florist’s is a nightmare. There are so many options and he’d been too frazzled trying to plan the date to look up flower meanings so now he’s just wandering around, looking at the different bouquets, all of which are too small or too large or too gaudy or too something not right for Rose.

            He hadn’t wanted to get her roses but when he sees a small bouquet of them in pink and yellow he knows suddenly that _this_ is the right one, and he buys it anyway. Hopefully she doesn’t hold it against him.

\---

            He’s standing in front of Rose’s flat. Well, the building. He has yet to go inside. He’s early. Not dreadfully early, but still early. Better than late, but what if she’s not ready yet? He should wait, right, to go up? Based on the address she gave him he thinks she’s on the third floor. But what if he’s wrong and he gets lost within the building? He rushes inside.

            Rose does, in fact, live on the third floor. He finds himself staring at her door a full four minutes early. He raises his hand to knock, then wonders whether or not he should hide the flowers behind his back, present them when she opens the door. Is that cheesy? Probably. Does that mean he shouldn’t do it?

            Three minutes.

            He raises his hand to knock again, then panics because he can’t remember if he brushed his teeth. Does he have a mint? No.

            Yes, he brushed his teeth. _Get a grip, John_.

            Two minutes.

            He removes the flowers from behind his back. Too cheesy. Brings his hand to the door. Knocks.

            Silence.

            Inwardly, he panics. Is he at the wrong door? Did he get the time wrong? The date? Did she change her mind? Has it somehow reset in the past hour—is it January first again?

            Then he hears the lock and the door opens and Rose is there. His heart is still hammering in his chest but he’s breathing a little easier now.

            She looks beautiful. Well, she always does. She smiles at him, a little shyly, and he wonders for a moment if he has even close to the sort of effect on her that she has on him. The thought makes his heart beat a little faster but maybe that’s just from the way she’s looking at him.

            “Hello,” he says.

            “Hello.”

            He holds out the flowers to her. “I got you these. I know, you probably always get roses, and I looked at the other flowers, I did, but I saw these and I thought—I dunno, it just seemed like—like something you might like, so.”

            She’s still smiling at him. His insides are twisting but it’s not necessarily an uncomfortable sensation.

            “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

            Her fingers brush his slightly and he thinks again that he’d like to hold her hand.

            “Let me just put these in water, yeah?”

            “Right, yeah.”

            He stays in the hall.

            “You can come in if you like,” she says over her shoulder. Cautiously he steps over the threshold into her flat. He sort of can’t believe this is all real but he’s not going to go questioning his luck.

            She’s disappeared, into the kitchen he assumes, leaving him in the living room. There’s a couch that looks old but well worn, a crocheted pink blanket draped over the back, a coffee table with a few magazines. There are a few framed photos on the stand by the TV, of Rose with her friends and, she assumes, her family.

            She comes back into the room with the flowers in a vase that she sets on the coffee table. She smiles at him again.

            “Pink roses are my favorite, how’d you know?” she says. He shrugs.

            “Lucky guess.”

            She grabs her coat and then they’re off. He wants to grab her hand but wonders if that might be too forward.

            “So, did you have a good day?” he asks to break the silence. Which wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but.

            “Yeah, not too bad. You? How was the shop?”

            “Oh, same as it usually is. Nothing too exciting.”

            Her hand brushes his accidentally. He glances at her but she’s looking ahead.

            “How’s your brother?”

            “Oh, he’s good. School started again this week, which he wasn’t too excited about, but other than that. I’m going to see him tomorrow, actually,” Rose tells him.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah, I usually go over Saturday mornings, have tea with mum, play with Tony. Pete usually goes into work Saturdays, so it’s my time to catch up with mum.”

            “Are your parents—”

            “My dad died when I was a baby,” she says, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. He wishes he hadn’t asked, but she seems fine about it. “I don’t remember him or anything, and when I was around 19 mum met Pete. She says he’s a lot like my dad, actually, and they hit it off, and then they got married. Had Tony.”

            “Do you get along with Pete?”

            “Oh, yeah. He’s a good man. Good for my mum. Good with Tony. He’s always treated me like his own daughter.”

            “That’s good,” he says with a soft smile. She looks up at him and smiles, too.

            “What about you? What’s your family like?”

            He tenses and looks away. It’s an involuntary reaction. Rose reaches out and grabs his hand.

            “If it’s not something—”

            “No, it’s—” he starts. He’s still not looking at her but her hand holding his is steadying him, somehow. “They’re gone. I’m the last of—it’s just me.”

            It occurs to him then that he’s never actually told anyone what happened. Who would he tell? The friends he’d had before, they’d all moved on, and rightly so. They’d had their adventures, he didn’t begrudge them going on. Then it had been just him, and his family back home, but when home was—who did he have to tell? No one. He sent his emails, dropped out of school. Family emergency, personal reasons—words that held no weight, that said nothing of what had happened. But here was Rose Tyler, the first ray of sunshine in his life since all that, looking up at him with concern in her eyes, holding his hand, and he’s already told her more than anyone. And what he’s told her doesn’t even brush the surface.

            And he realizes then, too, that he almost wants to tell her everything.

            But not tonight. Tonight is not about baring his soul, it’s about getting to know her. It’s about moving forward, not dragging her—or himself—back.

            He squeezes her hand and meets her eyes again. Smiles. He hopes she understands.

            “Do you like chips?” he asks her.

            “I love chips,” she replies. He grins.

            “Good, because I know the best place, if you’re hungry.”

            “Starved.”

            “Well then. Allons-y!”

            She giggles and he leads them on.

            He twines their fingers and she lets him. They remain that way for the rest of their walk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I very much envision this as Ten, but as many of you have noticed, there’s a lot of Nine here as well. Mostly. Or, the John we’re meeting and have met so far is very like Nine at the start of series 1. Ten’s coming through a bit more, but. Anyway. I realize I’ve been marketing this as Ten x Rose, which it is, but I’m gonna start using Doctor x Rose, too. Because it’s about the development of that relationship, and the development of the character in relation to, and response to, Rose Tyler, which started with Nine and continued with Ten. Anyway, sorry for the wait.

            He’d opted not to plan their date within an inch of its life. Something told him that Rose Tyler was not the type of woman who was impressed by fancy restaurants or other showy things. She seemed like the kind of woman who would enjoy the adventure of an off- the-beaten-path chippy. That’s what he liked about her. He realized he was making assumptions here, but that was what he was going off of when he was trying to figure out where to take her.

            It seemed he was right. His chippy (he called it his because he’d been coming for years and it felt like his own little place, his secret from all the tourists and students and regular people who probably passed by it and never thought to go inside) was a little shop tucked in between a furniture discount store and a clothing store. It was easy to miss, tiny inside, but there was always at least one customer. The employees all knew him but none were the friendly type and seemed perfectly content with keeping their relationship strictly order based, and he was okay with that. Until recently, that’s the sort of man he was with his customers, too.

            Part of him had worried about how Rose would react. Only as they approached the shop, though. He started to second-guess his choice. It was a first date after all, and this was certainly no upscale restaurant. He’d wondered for a moment if he’d read her wrong, but then she was grinning at him and saying she’d never even seen this place before, she’d gone to Henrik’s but never noticed this just next door, and he felt proud for having introduced her to it.

            The chips themselves were a hit as well. They sat at one of the tables in the shop and ate and talked and it was much easier than he’d expected, talking with Rose. She told him about how Pete owned a private security firm, how she’d started out as a receptionist but now worked on the customer relations end of things because she was good with people. She told him about her brief stint at Henrik’s (not the one next door, the one across town). She told him that Tony was 8 and loved reading and was so smart, a proud smile on her face as she did. He wanted to ask why she came in sometimes looking sad, bags under her eyes and two extra shots of coffee, but there’d only been one such day this time around. Not enough for it to be a pattern yet, not enough for him to have noticed a trend, for him to ask. So he doesn’t. But he sits and he listens and he wonders about Rose Tyler, about the sadness underneath it all, the gaps in her stories.

            Eventually they leave the chip shop.  He grabs her hand on impulse but she doesn’t say anything, or seem upset by it, so he doesn’t let it go.

            “So, where to now?” she asks.

            “Dunno,” he answered. “I’m sort of making it up as I go.”

            She grins. “Really?”

            “Really.” He grins back. “What would you like to do?”

            He can’t believe this is going so well. He can’t believe how _happy_ he is. Not that he’s been unhappy necessarily—for a while there, yes. But right now? Walking, holding Rose Tyler’s hand— _holding Rose Tyler’s hand_. He finds he can’t stop smiling.

            “Walking’s nice,” she says.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            And it’s nothing fancy, really. Just dinner in an old chippy, walking hand in hand through the busy streets. But somehow, it’s wonderful.

\---

            They approach her flat and he wants this night to go on longer, and true, it isn’t very late, but it’s only the first date. Hopefully there will be a second. Hopefully.

            He walks her up to her door. He wants to kiss her. He’s not sure if he should. If he can. She pulls out her keys and he drops her hand. He’s trying to formulate words when she faces him again.

            “I had a really nice time,” she says softly.

            “Good. I’m glad.”

            He wants to kiss her. He pushes the thought aside.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow? For your coffee?”

            “Of course.”

            He wants to kiss her.

            He hugs her instead. Just long enough, but it still feels too short. He releases her and smiles.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler.”

            “Good night, John.”

            He waits until he hears the lock click into place to leave.

\---

            He gets home and marks his calendar.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. 

            Outside it’s snowing.

            He swallows the panic and glances at the wall. The calendar is still there. He breathes again.

            He wonders how long this will go on. If he’ll spend the rest of his life holding his breath until he glimpses that calendar on the wall.

\---

            Classes start soon so he wanders over to the campus. Gets a coffee from the campus bookshop. (It’s crap. He’ll have to have one at work to wash out the taste.) Buys a textbook he’ll need. Peruses the posters advertising upcoming events. He never went to any while he was a student, before, but maybe now. Things are changing. Maybe.

            He wonders if he should ask Rose on a second date today. If it’s too soon. He wonders if she’s telling her mum about him at tea. He wonders what she’d say.

            Book in his arm, he walks to work.

\---

            Martha’s not in today, but Donna is. And Wilf, who owns the shop. And is apparently Donna’s grandfather.

            “There he is!” Wilf says brightly when John arrives.

            “Spaceman,” Donna greets. He grins at her.

            “Hello, Wilf,” he says. The other man pulls him in for a hug.

            He likes Wilf. He’s a good man. Gave him this job when he had nothing, really. No experience, no resume. Just walked in, said he wanted to apply for the job. Bags under his eyes, messy hair, hadn’t shaved in days. In the throes of grief. Wilf had taken one look at him, poured him a cup of coffee, and told him to come back in the morning to start. No questions. John never explained his situation, and truthfully, he never really saw Wilf aside from that first day, that morning when he walked in for his first day of work and Wilf taught him how to use the register. Aside from scheduling, they hadn’t ever really spoken. It’s clear now that he’d been keeping tabs, though, through Donna.

            “So how was your date?” Donna asks. He ducks his head a bit, embarrassed, and she grins.

            “Donna’s been telling me about your lady friend,” Wilf says.

            “She’s not my—”

            “Oh, shut it.”

            The bell above the door jingles and he turns his head quickly to check but it isn’t her. Wilf chuckles. Donna rolls her eyes.

            He handles the customer and then turns back to Wilf.

            “What brings you here today?” he asks.

            “I’m giving you the day off.”

            “What?”

            “You heard me. Working all the time, overtime even, never a complaint. No, I’m giving you today for yourself.”

            The bell rings again and he turns and this time it is Rose. He can’t help the smile that breaks out.

            “Hi,” he says.

            “Hi,” she says.

            Donna clears her throat.

            “Um, your usual?”

            “Yes, please.”           

            Their fingers brush as she hands him her money and he remembers how her hand felt in his and he wants more than anything to hold it again.

            Donna hands Rose her coffee and she smiles at him again.

            “See ya.”

            She goes and sits down by the window. He follows her with his eyes. Wilf nudges him.

            “Go.”

            “Hmm?”

            “Go, take the day. Spend it with her.”

            John looks from Wilf to Donna, who’s smiling encouragingly at him, to Rose, who’s pulled out her book, back to Wilf. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

            “Thank you.”

            He pulls off his apron and all but runs to where Rose is sitting.

            “Hi,” he says.

            She looks up at him and grins. “We’ve said that already.”

            “Right. I, um. Would you like to go somewhere? With me?”

            “When?”

            “Now.”

            “You don’t have work?’

            “Just got the day off.”

            He holds out his hand to her. Wiggles his fingers. She looks at him a moment and then grins, puts her book away, and grabs his hand.

            His heart soars.

\---

            The idea forms as they’re leaving the shop. He has no plans—his plans had been work, see Rose, spend his break chatting with Rose. He figured if he was lucky he’d get to hold her hand. But this? A whole afternoon to spend with her?

            But he has an idea. He steers them toward the campus and she doesn’t question him, just twines her fingers with his, and that makes him stop and look at her, but she just grins that tongue touched one and he squeezes her hand and she squeezes back and he wants to kiss her but it’s much too soon for that, isn’t it?

            “You still making it up as you go?” she teases.

            “Not this time.”

            “Oh? Then where are we going?”

            His grin widens. “It’s a surprise.”

            They reach the university and this time she’s the one who stops.

            “What?”

            “Are you a student?” she asks.

            “No. Yes. Well. I was, and then I took some time off, but I’m going back.” He pauses. “Are you?”

            “No. Never even got my A-levels.”

            There’s something to the way she says it, to the way she glances at the buildings, that tells him there’s a story there. He wonders briefly if this was a bad idea but quickly brushes it aside and vows to ask later what happened. For now he squeezes her hand again and motions with his head.

            “Wanna go?”

            He meets her gaze and she’s smiling at him, and God, he just wants her to always smile at him. He barely even knows this woman and by some miracle, some trick of time he’s getting the chance to know her more, but already he knows that he would go to great lengths to see her smile.

            “Lead the way.”

            It’s a small, modern looking building he remembers passing but never visiting. He stops at the door and motions for her to go inside. She finishes her coffee—he’d forgotten she still had that, and there’s an imprint on the rim from her lipstick and he wants to kiss her again which might soon become a permanent state for him, like wanting to hold her hand has become a permanent state, and he wants to put his lips where hers were on that cup but he wants to kiss her more and he’s far too distracted by this and then she’s tossing the cup into the bin and he’s tearing his eyes away and pointedly _not_ looking at her lips and—

            “Where are we?” she asks.

            Right. The plan. He doesn’t answer, just dramatically motions to the door again and she rolls her eyes at him and walks in. He follows and stops just behind her.

            “Welcome to The End of the World.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More characters! More references! I've taken liberties with it, though. Please forgive me for that. And just remember that it's not over yet. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Still don't own anything.

_and it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time_

**-**

            He’d seen the poster that morning among the others advertising their events around campus. _The End of the World: an art installation_. He’s never been much of an art person—liked it well enough, but science was more his thing. And if not science, literature. Art he appreciated from a distance, but still, the flyer had caught his eye. And for some inexplicable reason, he’d thought to take Rose to see it.

            And now here they stand, in a white box of a room, photos and items placed at not quite random (it’s an art installation piece, of course everything’s been meticulously placed), amongst a few students and random passersby.

            Rose takes it all in and then turns to him. “Bit bleak, isn’t it?”

            He shrugs. “Maybe. But, it hasn’t happened yet, has it? For all we worry about the end of the world, how we’ll die, we never really stop to think about the fact that maybe, just maybe, we’ll survive.”

            His gaze drifts. A photo of a ghost town somewhere. The buildings crumbling, cars collecting dust. Like the people fled rather than died out. He wishes—

            No. No use in that.            

            Rose has walked to another part of the room, so he wanders. Takes in the bits and pieces, this End of the World scenario or whatever it is. The things this artist thinks would survive. An old jukebox. A piece of cloth stretched and framed, with eyes drawn on, veins. A Harry Potter book.

            And then another photo. No, not a photo. It isn’t real. A drawing. Painting. The earth from space, only it’s on fire. Not gone yet, just burning. This red and orange dot in a black sea of stars. It’s beautiful. And terrifying and dismal, of course. But beautiful still. He can’t tear his eyes away.

            He feels someone come up next to him and he doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at this picture but he feels a hand slip into his.

            “Think we’ll be around to see it?” Rose asks.

            “No.”

            He feels rather than sees her nod.

            “I hope someone does, though.”

            “Yeah? How come?”

            He shrugs. “Hard as it to watch your home burn, it still—someone ought to see it. It shouldn’t be ignored like it’s nothing. One day, yes, the earth will die. But how long will it have lived?”

            “All those years, all that history.”

            He looks at Rose, smiles slightly. Turns back to the picture. After a moment he feels Rose leading him away, and he goes, glancing back once more.

            They don’t say anything as they walk. He takes in the campus. The buildings, the students, the noise. Classes may not have started yet, but it’s alive, teeming with activity. He knows he’s getting lost in his thoughts, but Rose squeezes his hand and he comes back a little.

            “You think it’ll last forever,” he says, not looking at her. “People and cars and concrete. But it won’t. One day it’s all gone.” Everything. And he can never get it back. And he can never go back to fix it. It’s just gone, forever, forever like he thought it’d last, only now it’s forever disappeared, like it never existed in the first place. But to him it was everything, to him it was home, and now he’s the only one left to mourn it.

            “My home’s gone,” he tells her. “It burned. It’s just rocks and dust.”

            “What happened?”

            “There was a—a sort of war,” he explains, and war isn’t the right word, but he can’t think of the right one so he lets it hang there in the air, short and harsh and not quite right.

            “With who?”

            He doesn’t know how to answer that. Can’t answer.

            “My family, my—they’re all gone, too. Just me now. The only survivor.”

            And he knows he’d mentioned it before, last night, he told her they’d died, but it feels—it feels different. He feels different, after that art installation. And he wants her to know, he wants to share this with her, and he doesn’t fully understand why. Why would he want to burden her with this—this most broken piece of himself?

            She squeezes his hand again. “You’re not on your own, though. There’s me,” she says with a soft smile. His heart tightens. “And Donna,” she adds. That gets a grin out of him, and she matches it.

            He spent the better part of a year serving her coffee and never getting involved, never saying anything beyond hello. And he thinks he loved her even then, spent that year watching her and wishing—but he never acted on it. And why? Because he was scared? Because he watched his family self-destruct, watched his home die, sat back and let himself self-destruct, too? Because he lost everyone, and seeing Rose Tyler smile every day brought a brightness to his life he’d not felt in years, and he was terrified of growing close to her and one day losing her, too?

            But he did lose her—not that he ever had her—but she was there every day until one day she wasn’t. And was his life any better for not having spent time with her? It’s a gift, this—this time loop or whatever it is. It’s a chance to fix it, to go back and be with her. He doesn’t even let himself think about the day she—

            With any luck, he’ll just repeat these few days forever. Variations on getting Rose Tyler to fall for him. God knows he’s already gone.

            “Chips?” he asks.

            “Chips,” she agrees.            

\---

            They go back to his chippy even though there are closer ones. It’s a longer walk but she’s holing his hand so he doesn’t care. They sit and eat their chips and talk a bit more—about more light-hearted things, though. Rose Tyler has this ability to make him smile and forget about all the demons he’s been chasing, and for all he’s just shared with her she doesn’t let it dampen her smile at all.

            “So, you’re finishing school?” she asks as they leave the shop.

            “Yep. Getting my doctorate.”

            “So you’ll be a doctor, then?”

            “Yep.”

            “Doctor who?”

            He’s thrown by the question at first, and then he realizes he’s never told her his full name.

            “Smith,” he replies.

            “John Smith.”

            “That’s my name.”

            “Really?”

            “What’s wrong with my name?”

            “Nothing,” she says. “Just—so ordinary.”

            He shrugs. “My dad told me once, there are some people whose parents give them these great, extraordinary names, and then there’s all this pressure to live up to them. But most people with extraordinary names are only ever average, like the pressure was too much and they couldn’t match it. So, he said he wanted to give me the most average name he could, like a challenge, almost.”             

            “Well, Doctor. I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job with that challenge,” Rose says, and he smiles instantly. When he turns to look at her she’s grinning that tongue-touched grin, and it makes his heart skip.

            “Doctor?”

            “John’s too average for you.”

            Harriet Jones said that, too, but somehow it means more from Rose.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            And she’s standing so close, she’s beaming at him and he knows he’s smiling just as widely and he wants more than anything to kiss her, to close the gap between them, and—

            Her phone rings.

            He could kill someone.

            She shoots him an apologetic smile and digs her phone out of her purse, dropping his hand in the process, and he takes a step back (how had they gotten so close to each other?).

            “Hello?” she says into the phone. She grins for whoever’s on the other line and a flare of jealousy sweeps through him. Which is a little ridiculous, he recognizes that, but the tone on the other line (not that he’s listening or can hear that well) sounds distinctly male and she’s grinning far too widely and he wants to hold her hand again and actually kiss her this time, and then she’s saying, “see you soon” to whoever was on the phone (enemy number 1 as far as he’s concerned) and hanging up, and she’s smiling apologetically again and no, he doesn’t like this smile at all.

            “Everything all right?” he asks nonchalantly (what he hopes is nonchalantly).

            “I was supposed to meet up with a friend this afternoon and I completely forget, he’s waiting for me at my flat.”

            “Oh.” His heart sinks. “Sorry for, uh, keeping you.”

            He’s not.

            “I have to go, sorry,” she says, and she does look sorry but he doesn’t want her to go yet. He forces a smile.

            “No, it’s fine. Can I walk you, at least?” Any chance to spend a few more minutes with her.

            She smiles. “Sure.”

            He wants to ask who this _friend_ is, what’s his name, what does he do, is he her boyfriend. (Surely she knew last night was a date? And this afternoon? Surely she doesn’t have a boyfriend, right? She said friend, so it must just be a friend. But does this friend have intentions?) He doesn’t ask, but he doesn’t reach for her hand, either. He feels unsure suddenly, of where he stands with her, and he remembers that though he’s known her for over a year, she’s only known him a few weeks. He starts to put his hand in his pocket, dejected, when she laces her fingers with his. His heart soars. It doesn’t completely alleviate his fears, but it helps.

            When they get within sight of her building he sees a bloke sitting on a bench right in front. He’s good-looking, of course, well dressed. Perfect for Rose. John hates him. He waves at Rose, and she waves back, and John tenses.

            “Well, um, I should—I should go,” he says, stopping. He doesn’t really want to meet this friend of hers.

            “Oh, okay,” she says. Her friend is walking toward them. Dammit. “I had a really nice time, though.”

            “Yeah, me too. I’ll—”

            “Hey, Rose,” says the friend, coming up to them and wrapping an arm around her. She drops John’s hand. John hates him.

            “Jack, hey,” Rose says.

            “Who’s your friend?” John doesn’t like the way he’s smiling at him.

            “Jack, this is John, John, this is my friend Jack.”

            “Nice to meet you,” John says, extending his hand. He’ll still be polite. Jack grins and shakes his hand, though it’s a bit more of a leer than a grin.  

            “You too, John.” He puts extra emphasis on his name and glances at Rose as he says it. She blushes.

            Huh.

            “What’ve you kids been up to?” Jack asks. “A date, perhaps?”

            “Jack,” Rose mutters, elbowing him in the side. He grins wider.

            “I’ll let you two say goodbye,” he says, shooting Rose another look and then wandering back to his bench. He winks at John, which John has no idea how to respond to.

            “Sorry about him, he’s a bit—”

            “No, no, it’s fine. Really.”

            Because he doesn’t feel threatened anymore, not really. Sure, Jack had had his arm around Rose, and he knows her, but the way he was acting—it would seem as though Rose told Jack about him. His heart speeds up.

            “This was fun, though,” Rose tells him.

            “Good, I’m glad.” He wants to kiss her. But Jack’s watching. And it’s probably too soon. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

            “I don’t usually go to the shop on Sundays,” she says. He knows this, but he hoped maybe—

            “Right, yeah. Okay. Well, um, have a good time with Jack, then. And rest of the weekend. Not with Jack—I mean, unless you are, spending the weekend with Jack, that is, I just meant have a good rest of the weekend as well as afternoon, whoever you spend it with, and—”

            She reaches up on her toes and kisses him on the cheek, and he’s lost the ability to form words.

            “See ya, Doctor.”

            And then she’s walking toward Jack and he’s frozen to the spot. She turns back to him and grins, and he thinks he grins back and he hopes he doesn’t do something stupid like reach up to touch where she kissed him and he wants to wipe that smug smirk off Jack’s face but not that much because Rose _kissed_ him and the world could end right now and he wouldn’t notice, probably.

            He heads back to his flat, lighter than air, lighter than he’s been in a long time, and he can’t stop smiling.

\---

            He marks his calendar. The sharpie marks on his arm have mostly all faded. He doesn’t redraw them.

            He falls asleep thinking about how he can see Rose tomorrow. Maybe he’ll invite her out for dinner? He’ll come up with something.

            Rose Tyler kissed him. On the cheek, yes, but still. She _kissed_ him. And she called him Doctor. For some reason this fills him with such joy.

            He falls asleep thinking of her.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm.

            The calendar is gone.

            He chucks his alarm clock at the spot where it had been.

            Outside, it’s snowing.

\---

            He redraws all the marks on his arms. Adds another. Goes to work.

            Rose Tyler walks through the door and smiles at him like he’s a stranger. Which he is, to her. He smiles though he feels like crying or shouting or throwing something else. Finishes his shift, goes home.

            He puts up a new calendar, marks a day. He doesn’t expect it to be there when he wakes up.

\---

            It is.

\---

            “You’re late,” Donna says when he walks in.

            “Sorry.” He’s not. “My alarm clock broke, I need to get a new one.”

            “How’d it break?”

            “I threw it at the wall.”

            “Why?”

            “I disagreed with it.”

            She won’t remember this tomorrow anyway, probably.

            Rose walks in and she still doesn’t know him. He’s purposely rude to her even though he knows it isn’t her fault. She doesn’t smile at him today. Donna looks at him like she’s disappointed in him, and he nearly storms out.

            He buys a new alarm clock. Goes home, marks another day. Falls asleep. 

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. The old one, not the one he bought yesterday. Yesterday, which is tomorrow, which is a future he won’t have now.

            Three days ago, two weeks in the future, Rose kissed him and called him Doctor. But that’s a future he’s not going get, either. Anymore.

            He marks his arm. Goes to work. Rose smiles at him like he’s a stranger.

            “Happy New Year,” she tells him. His heart hurts.

            “Yeah, you, too.”

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm and his calendar is gone. Again. He calls in sick.

            “You all right?” Donna asks.

            “No.”

            She won’t remember this tomorrow, anyway.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. He calls in sick. He buys a bottle of whiskey and falls asleep on the couch.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. He packs a bag, hails a taxi. He’s halfway to the airport when—

            He wakes up. His alarm clock is ringing. There’s no calendar, and it’s snowing. There are over a dozen marks on his arms and his head is pounding and Rose Tyler isn’t going to remember who he is today.

            He takes a breath. Turns off the alarm. Gets ready and walks to work.

            “Happy New Year.”

            “Yeah, you, too.”

\---

            He buys a calendar and hangs it on the wall. A year and a few months in the future Rose Tyler will die in a car accident. But time can be rewritten, apparently.

            He puts an x through the first day of the year and falls asleep.

            This is a chance to remake himself. A chance at a better ending. A chance with Rose Tyler. And maybe it will always reset. He can’t let it destroy him like this every time. Maybe this is his life now.

            Maybe he’s the one who died.

            (Maybe this is hell.)

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. The calendar is still on the wall.

            Variations on getting Rose Tyler to fall for him.

            He goes to work.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the scenes in this chapter has been in my head since I first started this story. Which is to say, I have a plan and am not just writing blind. It'll all work out in the end. 
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

            His arms are covered in sharpie marks. One night he decides to count them. He hits 50 before he stops. He doesn’t want to know anymore.

            Every day he wakes up and sees Rose Tyler. Once he gets a week in. Twice he gets three days. Five times he makes it to January second. He never gets as far as a date. He has yet to introduce himself again.

            Once he emails Harriet Jones. He skips the meeting, though, and wakes up the next morning in the past again.

            He’s honestly not sure how much longer he can keep this up. He’s trying. God, is he trying. But every day Rose Tyler doesn’t know him, and every day he tries and every day he fails.

            His alarm clock goes off and there’s no calendar on the wall and he marks his arm and walks to work without a hat, snow catching in his hair.

            It’s the least of his concerns.

\---

            The bell above the door jingles and he downs an espresso like a shot. Rose Tyler looks distracted. She’s only been coming here a week her time. He shouldn’t know her order yet. He writes it on a cup anyway.

            “Hi. I’ll have—”

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “Sorry?”

            “Your order. I already know your order.”

            She raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

            “Yep.”

            “How’s that?”

            “You’re becoming a regular. I make it a point to know my regulars’ orders.”

            “That so?”

            “Yep.”

            She’s smiling at him, which is always good. It’s a slightly different smile than others he’s seen, though. He’s catalogued about seven different Rose Tyler smiles in all his travels through time. This one makes eight. It’s almost a smirk but not quite. There’s mirth but also a question. A tinge of disbelief.

            “Can I have a name for the cup?” he asks. The smile evolves into one that’s a bit flirty around the edges, and he likes where this is going.

            “Rose.”

            “Nice to meet you, Rose. I’m the Doctor.”

            Because why the fuck not?

            “That’ll be $3.11,” he says as he draws her name on the cup. He hasn’t even rung up her order yet.  

            She hands over her credit card and that’s when he rings up the order, and he sneaks a glance at her to see her reaction to him. He’s never handled this morning this way. She’s smirking.

            “Doctor?”

            “Yep.”

            He pops the ‘p’ and finds he rather enjoys the way the word feels in his mouth.

            “Doctor what?”

            He shrugs and hands back her card.

            “Just the Doctor.”

            “Doctor who works in a coffee shop?”

            The raised eyebrow is back. He quite likes the look on her face in this moment. He takes a moment before responding to cement it into his memory.

            “That’s me. Well,” he draws out the word, and this is another he’s finding he likes the sound of, “I’m not technically a doctor yet. Just on my way.”

            “Of course.”

            She doesn’t believe him. She’s teasing him. He finds he likes the way her voice sounds when she’s teasing him.

            Her coffee’s ready and Donna hands it to him to give to her. He does.

            “Now, forget me, Rose Tyler.”

            He says it like it’s some sort of joke when it’s not. She’ll go through her day, go home, fall asleep, and wake up without any memory of this day. This interaction.

            He smiles a shade too brightly, and she’s looking at him like she can’t figure him out. It’s not a look she’s directed at him before, but this is just a morning of firsts, isn’t it?

            Pity it won’t take.

            “Happy New Year,” Rose says before she leaves.

            “Yeah, you, too.”

\---

            Donna scoffs.

            “ _Doctor_?”

            “It’s true.”

            “Since when are you getting a doctorate?”

            “Since I decided to go back and finish.”

            Donna looks like she doesn’t believe him. But like she wants to.

            He goes home and emails Harriet Jones. He pulls out his books and notes and things from the closet. Cleans his flat, puts the books back on their shelves. Clears his desk of the clutter and crap that has accumulated these past three years.

            He doesn’t really think it will mean anything tomorrow, but he hangs the calendar on the wall anyway.

            He doesn’t think it will last, this go, but God he wants it to.

\---

            It does.

\---

            Rose Tyler calls him Doctor and grins at him and his heartbeat quickens even though this isn’t anything new. Over 50 days of Rose Tyler smiling at him you’d think the effect would wear off, but he’s glad it hasn’t. He’s not sure he ever wants to be immune to Rose Tyler’s smiles.

            He tells her that she should buy a muffin because life is short and the earth’s going to burn one day and why not have this one thing?

            She grins at him and asks if there are any blueberry muffins and he grins and puts one in a pastry bag for her.

            Donna teases him about his crush after Rose leaves, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

\---

            He meets with Harriet Jones. He’d forgotten how much he’s missed her. They catch up and it’s familiar but new, and altogether lovely. They get him signed up for classes and he’ll get to keep his job at the coffee shop and he tells her that she should come by sometime, and she says maybe she will.

            He marks another day off his calendar and he feels good. He feels better. Like he’s doing this for himself, not just for Rose.

            He falls asleep thinking about stars and equations, universes beyond his reach.

            Maybe they’re not so far away anymore.

\---

            “Morning, Doctor.”

            “Morning, Rose.”

            There are bags under her eyes. She looks tired, and she asks for two extra shots. He doesn’t manage to mask his concern quick enough.

            “What?”

            “Nothing.”

            She doesn’t look convinced.

            “$3.11.”

            She hands him her card. He realizes that he forget to ring up the extra shot. He’ll drop a few coins into the drawer later. He glances at her and she’s not looking at him. She looks sad, sadder than he’s seen her look in several resets.

            He draws a smiling sun next to her name on the cup, and in a fit of insanity writes his phone number, too. He considers adding a note, but everything sounds wrong.

            She doesn’t notice before she leaves the coffee shop, and he’s not sure if he’s disappointed or not.

\---

            That afternoon his phone rings and he doesn’t recognize the number but he answers anyway.

            “Hello?”

            Silence.

            “Hello?”

            “ _Hey._ ”

            His heart skips.

            “Hi.”

            “ _Sorry. I’m not sure why I’m—_ ”

            “No, don’t apologize, I mean—”

            “ _I just—_ ”

            “You looked sad. This morning. And I wanted—”

            “ _Thank you_.”

            Silence.

            “Wanna—wanna meet somewhere? Get coffee, or tea, or—”

            “ _Yeah. I’d like that_.”

\---

            They meet at a chippy near her flat. It’s not as good as his chippy, but maybe he’ll take her there again one day.

            She doesn’t talk about what’s wrong, and he doesn’t ask. They talk about nothing. About their lives, their jobs. He learns new things about Rose Tyler, and she makes him laugh and he realizes he hasn’t done much of that lately.

            He walks her home and she invites him in and she kisses him and he knows he should stop her but he doesn’t because she’s _kissing_ him and he hates that this is the way it’s happened because he knows she’s not herself, not really. For all that they’ve just been talking there’s been this undercurrent of something off about her all evening and he tried to ignore it but it’s there and she’s kissing him and that’s clearly a sign that not everything’s all right, but—

            He doesn’t stop her.

\---

            He asks her if she’s sure and she says yes and she kisses him again and he’s so far gone and he’s going to hate himself in the morning but in this moment—

\---

            They’re facing each other on her bed. He’s trying to memorize this moment in case it never happens again. The pillows smell like her and she’s tracing his jaw with her fingers and he’s drawing circles on her side, a language he made up when he was a kid. Words he can’t say that she wouldn’t understand.

            “Are you gonna regret this in the morning?” she whispers.

            He thinks he already does.

            “Are you?” he asks.

            She kisses him like that’s an answer and maybe it is.

            He kisses her back and it’s his, too.

            He watches her fall asleep and he tries to memorize this moment in case he never gets a chance at it again.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. In his own bed, in his pajamas, in the past.

            He isn’t surprised.

\---

            There isn’t any more room on his arms for the sharpie marks.  He starts drawing them on his stomach.

            He’s gone on six first dates with Rose Tyler. Two second dates. He’s started classes once. Twice he’s met Donna’s boyfriend. Those are the good things.

            Twice he’s gotten almost to the airport. Three times he’s been slapped by Donna. Once he’s made Martha cry. Once he was so rude to Rose she didn’t come in the next day, but he woke up on January first again before he could find out if he’d driven her off for good. Once he stepped in front of a car but he woke up on January first before he could find out what would’ve happened.

            He hasn’t kissed Rose Tyler again, not since that once, that one night that is seared onto his heart. He thinks about it every day, every time he sees her smile.

            Some days he thinks it will never happen again.

            Some days he thinks he thinks that’s for the best.

\---

            He and Rose have barely spoken this time around. He and Donna are becoming friends fast, though. But that’s how it always is. Donna is brilliant and absolutely someone he needs in his life. Every time he wakes up in the past, hating life and himself and the universe and time, every time he loses Rose, he goes to work and Donna’s there to not take any of his shit. To scoff at him and slap him when he gets too rude, to hand him a coffee when he really needs it. She has no idea what he’s dealing with but she manages to be exactly what he needs, and he loves her for it.

            He never had any siblings, but he thinks sometimes that, if he had a sister, he’d want her to be like Donna.

\---

            It’s been a week. He’s polite to Rose but he can’t manage much else. He looks at her and he’s back in that moment, in her room, on her bed, the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, and those rare moments when their fingers brush as they exchange money or a pastry or coffee make his skin burn and tingle and she doesn’t remember and that kills him.

            “You should ask her out,” Donna says.

            “That’s a bad idea.”

            “Why?”

            He shrugs.

            “Come on, Spaceman. What’ve you got to lose?”

            Everything. Nothing. He doesn’t even know anymore.

\---

            Another week passes. He can’t believe it, really. Nothing remarkable has happened. He’s decided not to question things, though.

            He gets up, marks his stomach, goes to work, marks his calendar, goes to sleep. Wakes up and repeats it all again. Except time is moving forward, and he lets himself hope.

            Donna invites him to the pub with her and Lee. He goes, and he’s forgotten what it’s like to have friends. It’s nice.

            He swears he sees Rose Tyler across the pub with a man he remember meeting once, what feels like years ago. Jack. They don’t see him, and it’s better that way, he thinks.

            He stumbles home, drunker than he’s been in a while, and tomorrow is Saturday and Monday he starts classes and this is happening, this is his life.

            He falls asleep and he doesn’t dream.

            (He can’t remember the last time he dreamed.)

\---

            He wakes up on his own. No alarm. It’s late but not too late. He still has time before he has to head in to work. He reorganizes his bookshelf. Makes a grocery list. Folds some laundry.

            There are marks all over his arms and stomach. He’s grown so used to them he forgets what his skin looked like without them. He remembers Rose tracing the lines on his arm. She didn’t ask, which is just as well. He had no answer to give her but the truth, and he can’t tell her that. Not that she’d’ve remembered anyway.

            He gets to work and Martha is chatting with Rory. Rory’s another regular, though only a weekend regular. Seems nice enough. Martha smiles at him and he remembers another time when Donna told him Martha fancied him. He’s not sure that’s true this time around, or if it is, he’s pretty sure she’s gotten over it. Rory goes to sit down when he arrives, and he slips on his apron and takes his spot at the register. Typical Saturday. Nothing too exciting.

            He can’t remember the last time he made it this long, though. It’s sort of nice.

            Rose walks in and she’s beautiful. That’s nothing new, though. He smiles at her before he can stop himself, and she smiles back and this is one of the moments when he’s glad he’s not immune to Rose Tyler’s smiles.

            “Hey,” she says.

            “Good afternoon. Your usual?”

            “Yes, please.”

            He rings up her order and draws a rose instead of writing it. A few moments later he lets his gaze wander to where she’s sat down, and he watches her notice it on the cup. Smile number nine.

            Donna comes in and relieves Martha, and she catches him watching Rose. She nudges him but doesn’t say anything.

            He’s had a few great moments with Rose. He’s let himself get close to her, let himself start to fall for her, only to have it snatched away. He’s moving on with his life now, he’s in school again, he’s not letting his feelings for her dictate his entire being, but—

            He grabs a blueberry muffin from the case, pulls off his apron, and heads to where Rose is seated.

            The fire alarm sounds.

            He grabs her hand without stopping to think about it as customers file out of the shop and begins to pull her toward the exit.

            “Run.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Had a hard time with this chapter. Probably gonna be longer waits between updates from here on out. I’d say we’re about halfway through? Maybe? Also. I’ve take liberties with universities/doctorate offerings and such. As it stands, a doctorate in astrophysics is not offered by any of the universities in London. Let’s pretend. Also, I know dollars aren’t the currency in London. It’s a reflex for everything to be in dollars; I’ll probably go back and change it at some point. Sorry for errors. And this long note. 
> 
> Enjoy.

He hadn’t realized how crowded the shop was until he sees them all standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the fire department.

            He realizes he’s still holding Rose Tyler’s hand and he lets go.

            “Sorry,” he says.

            “No, it’s—it’s fine.”

            She smiles at him, and he smiles back.

            “I’m the Doctor, by the way. What’s your name?”

            He’s taken to calling himself that. Not that John’s a bad name or anything. But. He’s a different man now.

            “Rose. Rose Tyler,” she says, even though she knows he knows her first name, at least. He grins.

            “Nice to meet you, properly, Rose Tyler.”

            God, he loves saying her name.

            “Doctor what?” she asks with a grin.

            “Just the Doctor,” he replies. “I was bringing you this, before the alarm,” he explains, holding out the blueberry muffin for her.

            “Why?”

            He shrugs, rubs the back of his neck. “Just. Wanted to.”

            She grins that tongue touched grin he loves, and takes the pastry from him.

            “You bring all the girls blueberry muffins?” she teases.

            “No, just you.”

            She looks at him again, really looks at him, like she’s not sure what to do with that. He doesn’t blame her. Every time he talks to her, even if it’s just a hello, he has to remind himself that to her he is a stranger, and for all the ways he knows her, she sees him as just the man who serves her coffee. It stings but. What can you do.

            The fire department shows up and he leaves Rose with a small smile and goes to talk to Donna. Some sort of malfunction, no fire, but they’re going to need to keep the shop closed for the rest of the day. Most of the patrons have wandered off already, but Rose is, inexplicably, still there. Donna tells him to have a good day and shoots a meaningful look at him, then glances at Rose. He ignores the butterflies in his stomach and walks toward her.

            “Shop’s closed,” he tells her.  

            “Yeah, I figured as much,” she answers.

            “Aren’t you gonna go home?”

            What is he doing?

            She doesn’t seem offended or put off by him, which is good. She offers him a piece of the muffin and he accepts, though he’s not a huge fan of blueberry.

            “Dunno. What about you?” she asks.

            He shrugs. Does a quick date calculation.

            “Actually, I was gonna go to this—this exhibit. Do you want to come?”

            She grins. “Sure.”

            He holds out his hand, and she takes it, and he leads her away from the shop.

            Variations on getting Rose Tyler to fall for him.

\---

            He takes her to _The End of the World_ again. They spend a long time looking at the picture of the earth burning, and when they accidentally knock over a creepy looking piece called Lady Cassandra they make a run for it and don’t stop until they’ve left campus.

            She holds his hand and smiles at him, and he tells her about his family. His home. He’s told her this story a few times now, and it never ceases to amaze him that every time she just grips his hand a little tighter, offers him a smile, and all but tells him that he’s not alone anymore. That he’s got her.

            She does that this time, too. As they walk through the city, as he tells her how it burnt, that he’s the only one left.

            “There’s me,” she says, and it’s amazing because she barely knows him, but here she is, spending the day with him, getting chased out of art exhibits, holding his hand, telling him he’s not alone. Smiling at him like she understands and wants to be there for him. He’s been in love with Rose Tyler for a long time, and it’s moments like this that he remembers why.

            “So, Rose Tyler, do you want me to take you home?”

            He wants to spend more time with her but she has her own life, and who knows if she has plans today? He doesn’t want to come on too strong, after all.

            “I want . . . chips,” she says, and he grins.

            “Okay. Chips it is. I know just the place.”

            They’re halfway there when he realizes he doesn’t have his wallet.

            “I must’ve—I think I left it in the shop. I’m sorry, I can go and—”

            “Don’t worry about it, I’ll pay this time,” Rose says, and he relaxes a bit. “Cheap date you are,” she teases.

            His heart soars.

\---

            They eat chips and they talk. Or, she talks. She tells him a lot of things she’s told him in previous time streams. About her family. Her brother. Her job. But he listens just as intently as he always has, because even if she’s told him this before, _this_ Rose Tyler hasn’t, and sometimes you need to live in the present and not the past.

            He starts to walk her home when he remembers that he’s not supposed to know where she lives, so he stops and asks if he can walk her home, and then lets her lead. He walks her to her door and she hugs him and she smells just as she always has, in every version of things where he has hugged her.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler,” he says.

            “Good night, Doctor,” she says before she disappears into her flat.

            It’s a start.

\---

            He wakes up the next morning and it is, indeed, the next morning. He’s almost giddy as he marks his stomach and gets ready for work.

            Yesterday he went on an impromptu date with Rose Tyler and tomorrow he starts classes again. He feels like skipping to work, but he doesn’t.

            “Had a good day?” Donna asks when he gets into work. He just grins.

            Work is work and he can barely fall asleep because he’s so excited about school and he feels like a child again, but it’s a nice feeling, being excited, another he’s missed.

            He wakes up to his alarm and the calendar is still on the wall and he grabs his newly packed backpack and heads to work.

\---

            “Morning,” Rose says when she walks in. He beams.

            “Morning.”

            “Have a good weekend?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

            “Well, it was all right.”

            “Just all right?”

            “A few highlights. Saturday, for instance.” She grins. “Your usual?”

            “Yes, please.”

            He writes her name in fancy cursive script and Donna rolls her eyes at him. He ignores her. 

            “That’ll be $3.11,” he says, and their fingers brush as she hands him her card, and it shoots straight to his heart. She smiles at him again.

            “See you around,” she says as she leaves, and he nods.

            “Yeah. See ya.”

            He watches her go.

            “So. Good day, Saturday?” Donna asks.

            “Shut up.”

            But he can’t stop grinning.

\---

            He has _homework_. He has a notebook filled with notes and diagrams, and reading he needs to do, charts he needs to make, _homework._ But he hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. He finds himself dialing Rose’s number because he wants to share this with someone—with her—but he hangs up before he finishes because they haven’t exchanged numbers yet, have they? It wouldn’t do for him to know her number before she’s given it to him.

            He’s bursting with energy and he wants to talk to Rose but he can’t, so he settles into his desk chair and gets started on his work.

            He falls asleep, head on his textbook.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. There’s a crick in his neck because sleeping hunched over a desk is never fun, and it reminds him so suddenly of his undergraduate days, nights spent hunched over books in the library, chugging coffee and energy drinks and bouncing off the walls with equations and constellations swimming in his head. He gets up and shuts off his alarm, lifts his shirt to add another sharpie mark, and begins to get ready.  

            “Morning, Donna,” he greets when he gets to work.

            “Morning,” she echoes. “What’s with the bag?”

            “I started classes yesterday. Got lab after work.”

            “Look at you, applying yourself.”

            She’s mocking him a bit, but she’s happy for him, too, he knows. When he’d first told her he was going back to school—after a brief synopsis of why he’d left—she’d hugged him and patted his hair. It was strange but not necessarily unpleasant.

            The bells above the door jingle and he turns around just in time to see Rose. He grins.

            “Good morning!”

            She laughs. “Morning. You’re chipper today.”

            “Good day.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ and he likes this word he remembers. He draws a Rose on her cup and adds his phone number. He hopes Donna doesn’t notice.

            She hands him money after he’s rung her up, and she drops the change in the tip jar. There’s a piece of paper that fell in, too, though. He’s about to tell her when she gives him a small wave and says goodbye.

            Curious, he pulls the paper out.

            It’s her phone number. With a smiley face.

            Donna teases him about it for the rest of his shift—both that he gave her his phone number and that he got hers—but he’s so happy he doesn’t even care.

\---

            He’s exhausted. Work and then lab, and he hasn’t done academic anything in years. It’s fun and it’s exciting but it’s challenging, and he’s enjoying the challenge but he feels like falling into bed as soon as he walks through the door of his flat.

            His phone’s ringing, though, and he can’t imagine who would be calling him right now or who even has his number, but he answers anyway.

            “Hello?”

            “ _Hi._ ”

            Rose. His heart speeds up.

            “Hi.” He’s already said that. Shit. “How are you?”

            “ _Good. I just, I noticed you left your number—”_

“Yeah, and I noticed you—on the—in the tip jar—”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            Pause.

            “ _You sound tired._ ”

            “Little bit. I, uh, I actually just got back. Had class. Well, lab.”

            “ _Class_?”

            “Yeah. Told you I’m the Doctor, but, well, it’s a—I’m a work in progress. Still working on it.”

            “ _Really?_ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _What are you getting your doctorate in?”_

            “Astrophysics.”

            “ _Whoa._ ”

            He chuckles.

            “Yep.”

            This time she laughs.

            “ _You think you’re so impressive._ ”

            “I am so impressive!”

            And before he knows it he’s going on about what they did in lab, and the lecture he went to yesterday, and a paper he remembers reading years ago, constellations and galaxities and physics and has she ever seen the stars, properly seen them, because they’re gorgeous and they’re just there but the London air obscures them but does she ever wonder about the universe sometimes? About how small they are really, but how magnificent at the same time?

            He just rambles. Initially he’s trying to impress her, but eventually that gives way to just talking, and he hasn’t really talked with anyone aside from Donna, and before that—years of silence.

            She listens, really listens, and reacts when she’s supposed to and asks questions and yes, she wonders about the universe and no, she’s never seen the stars. She’s never even left London.

            He hears her yawn and looks at the clock and it’s midnight. They’ve been talking for hours.

            “I should let you go, it’s late,” he says.

            “ _It—oh. I didn’t even notice._ ”           

            He smiles.

            “Sorry for rambling a bit.”

            “ _No, don’t apologize. You should ramble more often._ ”

            “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            He doesn’t want to go and he doesn’t think she does, either.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler.”

            “ _Good night, Doctor._ ”

            He hangs up the phone. Smiles.

            He falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

            (He doesn’t dream.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's kind of got a to be continued ending. Bonus points if anyone guesses what it's leading up to.

            It becomes part of his routine. Every morning he wakes up, goes to work, sees Rose, goes to class or lab or the library or the class he’s TA-ing for Harriet Jones, then gets home and either he calls Rose or she calls him, and they talk until one of them yawns, and then it’s time for bed.

            Another week passes. He can barely believe it, but he’s almost too busy to celebrate. Being even a part time student in addition to working in addition to his budding relationship with Rose takes up all his time, and the only times he ever really thinks about the strange time loop he’s found himself in are when he wakes up and when he falls asleep.

            The marks covering his arms and stomach are so numerous it’s almost scary. But he feels the need to keep counting. He feels the need to keep track, to somehow measure what’s happening. Sometimes he’s afraid he’s losing his mind, that he made it all up, but the marks prove that it’s real.

            But he’s not as concerned as he had been. At the beginning he lived in almost constant fear of time resetting, of waking up on January first again. And when it would happen, he would spiral back into the melancholy of his life prior to the whole thing.

            He’s been in this time stream for a month. A _month_. And he and Rose talk everyday on the phone, and see each other every day, practically. He’s doing something with his life again. He has a friend in Donna, support from Harriet Jones. Some nights he can barely fall asleep because the thought that he might wake up and lose it all is so great, but other nights he falls asleep feeling such contentment because in only a few weeks he has gained so much of what he’d thought he’d lost forever.

            Some days he is terrified and some days he is triumphant, but everyday he sees Rose smile something inside him heals.

\---

            He and Rose haven’t been on a date yet, officially. In fact, he has no idea where they stand. They see each other and talk on the phone. Saturdays he sits with her on his break, and once they walked to the sandwich shop across the street to eat. But there’s no label to what they are. She is Rose and he is the Doctor and mostly that’s just fine, but sometimes he wants to make it official, or something. Something where he can say, definitively, that he is hers and she is his.

            He becomes aware of this one Saturday in particular, about six weeks into this time stream. Rose is sitting at her usual chair by the window, reading. He’s serving a customer, with three more queued up, and he’s waiting until the shop clears a bit to take his break. That’s when he sees someone go up to her and start chatting.

            The whole thing is so distracting that he nearly misses the order he’s just been given, and it takes all of his concentration to get through the remaining customers. When he’s dealt with them all he glances over and sure enough, a random bloke is sitting in _his_ chair (okay, it isn’t his, it’s just the chair he normally sits in when he chats with Rose), looking far too interested in the conversation he’s having with Rose. What irks him most, though, is that she’s laughing, and smiling, and paying attention to this bloke (who looks like a teenager, by the way) who is clearly hitting on her. John wants more than anything to march over and do something stupid and possessive, like sit next her in that massive armchair, or hold her hand, or hug her, or kiss her. Mark his territory somehow.

            Clearly he’s insane. She’s not his girlfriend, they have made no promises to each other, they’re just friends (he’s never hated that word as much as he does now) and, as such, she’s free to flirt with whomever she wants, and apparently she has no problem flirting with this kid. (Seriously, how old is he?)

            He’s glaring daggers at the pair of them (mostly the nameless bloke who paid with cash and is _not_ a regular and so help him if he does become one, John will sabotage his order every day). Donna comes up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

            “Down, boy.”

            He wants to lash out but he can’t. Also, Rose might hear. He feels like she might not take too kindly to his sudden possessiveness.

            “Take your break, Spaceman,” Donna says, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

            Rose looks over and smiles at him as he approaches, and he pulls up a chair from one of the neighboring tables and sits next to her.

            “Hey,” she says, and it’s amazing how much that settles him—just a word from her and a smile in his direction.

            “Hey,” he echoes. He smiles, too, but he knows it’s forced. If she notices she doesn’t comment.

            “This is Adam. Adam, the Doctor. Or, well, John.”

            “Doctor?” the kid (Adam) asks. John hates him.

            “Yep.”

            “Of what?”

            What he wants more than anything is to show off, say something snarky, prove to Rose that he is smarter and cleverer than this bloke, but he reins himself in.

            “Astrophysics.”

            “And you work here?”

            Oh, how he hates this Adam.

            “He’s working on his degree,” Rose explains.

            “Good for you.”

            “What brings you here, Adam? Haven’t seen you before,” John says.

            “Just decided to stop in.”

            “Just passing through?”

            “Yeah. But it’s a nice place. Might make it a regular thing, coming in.” Adam looks at Rose at that. John wants to grab her hand or put his arm around her but he bites back the impulse.

            “Adam and I were just talking about books,” Rose says, as if sensing the tension radiating from him.

            She’s on Prisoner of Azkaban now, but she brought in a different book today. She was telling him about it last night. A series she’s been reading, crime thrillers.

            “I just started the Alex Cross series, but I haven’t reached _The Big Bad Wolf_ yet. Rose was just telling me about it.”

            John very much doubts that Adam has ever read any of these books, and he dislikes the way her name sounds when he says it.

            “Really.”

            “Have you read them, John?” Adam asks.

            He hates him.

            “No.”

            He hates the smile on Adam’s face, too.

            “I’ve got to go,” Rose says. She packs away her book and grabs her (empty) coffee cup, shooting Adam a smile. “It was nice to meet you, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you around here again.”

            John certainly hopes not.

            “Yeah, definitely.”

            When she stands John pulls her in for a hug. They’ve hugged maybe three times, and it’s one of his favorite things to do, hug Rose Tyler, and he doesn’t do it nearly often enough, but he’s aware of the fact that it’s out of character for him and he hopes she doesn’t comment on it. He’s never been a particularly touchy-feely sort of person, these past few years especially, but he always wants to touch Rose. Which might be why he hardly ever does. He hugs her now, though, and yes he’s feeling possessive and maybe a bit threatened but she hugs him back and the tension begins to leave him.

            “Talk to you later,” she says in his ear.

            “Yeah.”

            He lets her go and she smiles at him, and at Adam again, and then she’s gone.

            “Are you and her—?”

            John just looks at him and walks back to the register. Donna pats him on the back.

            “Oh, Doctor.”

\---

            “ _Missed you today_.”

            His heartbeat increases.

            “How’s that?”

            He can almost see her shrug.

            “ _We always hang out Saturdays during your break_.”

            “We did that,” he says, feigning ignorance, because he wants to hear her say it.

            “ _But it wasn’t the same, with Adam there._ ”

            He grins despite himself.

            “No, it wasn’t.”

            “ _I wanted to tell him to go away, but he was a nice guy, honestly._ ”

            “Yeah, he seemed like a great kid.”

            She laughs.

            “What?”

            “ _Nothing._ ”

            He wants to ask her on a date. He wants to ask her what they are. He wants to ask her to meet him someplace. He wants to invite her over for dinner, wants to sit on his couch or her couch or anywhere, really, with her, hold her hand and hug her and kiss her and—

            That night in her flat is imprinted onto his heart. Sometimes she’ll smile or she’ll say something and he’s back in that moment, and his chest tightens and he wants to crush his lips to hers and tell her words like love and forever and always.

            He never does, though. He never says anything, and he certainly doesn’t do anything. Like now.

            “ _Got a bunch of work this weekend?_ ”

            “Yeah, little bit. Nothing I can’t handle,” he boasts.

            She laughs at him again.

            “ _Well, I should let you get to it_.”

            He doesn’t want to hang up yet, though. They barely saw each other today and they’ve barely talked.

            “Already?”

            “ _I’m babysitting tonight, my mum’ll be by with Tony any minute now._ ”

            He wants to say something stupid, offer to help, offer to come by, to take them out for chips—stupid domestic things he never does, has never done, but—he wants to do these things, with Rose. The realization terrifies and thrills him at the same time.

            “Oh. Okay,” he says instead.

            “ _See you Monday._ ”

            He wants to ask about tomorrow, about why never Sundays. What she does with her day that he doesn’t see her.

            “Yeah,” he says instead.

            She seems to notice the hesitation in his voice.

            “ _What?_ ”

            “Nothing.”

            “ _No, come on. What is it you wanna say?_ ”

            He takes a deep breath.

            “What about tomorrow?”

            Silence.

            He panics—he’s fucked up, he’s ruined it, she’s going to hang up, he’s overstepped his boundaries, the lines they’ve set up and never cross, he’s crossed, he’s—

            “ _Maybe._ ”

            His heart flips.

            “Really?”

            He knows she’s smiling just from the tone her voice takes when she says, “ _Yeah, really._ ”

            He smiles, too. He hopes she can tell.

            “Have a good night, Rose.”

            “ _You too, Doctor._ ”

            “See you later.”

            “ _Not if I see you first._ ”

            His heart skips. He hears the line disconnect, but he swears he sits there holding the phone to his ear for at least a minute.

            It’s a miracle he gets any work done at all that night. All he can think of is Rose.

\---

            Sunday he works afternoons, which he doesn’t mind. It lets him sleep in, run errands.

            He gets to work and Donna smiles apologetically at him.

            “Rose was looking for you this morning.”

            “What?” He deflates.

            “She came by, asked if you were here. I told her you work afternoons on the weekends,” she explained. He’s never hated his schedule as much as he does now. “Sorry.”

            “It’s fine,” he says.

            He’s in a mood all day. He’s not rude, exactly (a bit, maybe).

            He never sees Rose on Sundays. But of course, the one Sunday she comes in, it would be when he’s not working. Because that’s his luck, apparently.

            When he gets back to his flat after work he’s exhausted. When his phone rings he contemplates not answering. But he wants to talk to her more than he wants to sulk, and it’s not her fault, anyway. There’s no reason she would know his Sunday work schedule.

            “Rose?”

            “ _Hey._ ”

            It’s off. She’s off, somehow. Like she’s trying to sound normal but he’s too used to her tones for it to work. Something in him goes on alert.

            “You okay?”

            “ _Fine. Just, long day, you know?_ ”

            He doesn’t, actually. But she sounds tired, and sad, and possibly like she’s been crying, and he feels stupid for pouting and nearly not answering his phone.

            “What’s going on?”

            “ _I went by the shop this morning_.”

            So that’s how she wants to do this?

            “Yeah, Donna told me.”

            “ _So you work afternoons on the weekends?_ ”

            “Yep.”

            Pause.

            “So. What’d you do today?”

            “ _Nothing, really._ ”

            “Yeah?”

            He doesn’t believe her.

            “ _Yep._ ”

            She can tell.

            Pause.

            “ _I’m gonna go. Sorry for calling, I—_ ”

            “Rose—”

            No, no, he doesn’t want her to hang up, he wants her to say what’s going on, he wants—

            “ _I’m tired._ ”

            He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. Sighs.

            “Yeah. Okay.” He pauses. “See you tomorrow?”

            It’s always a given, but something’s wrong today and he doesn’t know what it is and he half wants to walk to her flat and bang on the door and make her tell him. But boundaries and lines they’ve drawn and fear.

            “ _Yeah. G’night, Doctor._ ”

            “Good night, Rose.”

            She hangs up.

            He doesn’t mark his calendar. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach and if he wakes up tomorrow on January first, well.

            It won’t be surprising.

            (It will be crushing.)

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. The calendar is still on the wall, and he crosses off yesterday and marks another line on his stomach and goes to work and _God,_ he wants to see Rose.

            The moment she walks in he knows it’s a two extra shots day, and the way his chest constricts he actually feels a stab of pain. He wants to hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay but he doesn’t even know what the problem is.

            “Hey,” he says softly when she reaches the counter.

            “Hey,” she says with a bright smile that doesn’t match the look in her eyes. She’s trying to compensate, and he can tell and he wants to call her on it but he’s always been a coward when it comes to her. “Make it two extra shots today.”

            “Rose, what’s wrong?” He’s calling her on it anyway.

            “Nothing.”

            “Rose—”

            “Don’t, John,” she says tiredly, and it’s like a slap to the face. She’s _never_ called him John—not this time around. He’d introduced himself as Doctor, and later he told her his name, but she’s always called him Doctor, never John. That she should use his real name now, it’s like—

            It’s like a denial of their relationship. _Doctor_ is the one she talks to every night, that she smiles at, that she hangs out with on Saturday afternoons. The Doctor and Rose Tyler, not John Smith and Rose Tyler. To call him John, now, when all he’s trying to do is be there for her—

            “Fine.”

            He schools his face into a neutral expression and rings up her order. She hands over her card. Their fingers don’t touch.

            He hands back her card and she smiles politely. He smiles back the same way.

            They don’t say goodbye, and she doesn’t look back at him as she leaves.

\---

            She doesn’t call him that night, and he’s just angry (hurt) enough not to call her, either.

            He doesn’t mark his calendar again.

\---

            He wakes up. He goes to work.

            Rose treats him like a stranger. He does the same.

            He wonders what he did wrong.

\---

            Days pass. He keeps waiting for her to stop coming to shop. She doesn’t. But she doesn’t speak to him, either. Polite smiles that don’t reach her eyes. Another two extra shots day.

            On Friday her fingers brush his and it’s like a shot to the heart.

            She doesn’t even look at him.

\---

            Saturday she comes in, orders her coffee, takes it to go.

            Martha looks at him like she understands and he wants to snap at her, lash out, throw something, maybe. He doesn’t.

            He takes his break and she’s across the street at the sandwich shop with her book.

            He goes back inside.

            After work he buys a bottle of whiskey and gets drunk and passes out on his bed.

            If this is all their relationship is going to be, he wants to wake up on New Year’s.

\---

            He wakes up to his phone ringing. His head is killing him and he’s convinced for a second that he got his wish.

            “Hello?”

            “ _I’m sorry._ ”

            “Rose?”

            “ _Hi._ ”

            He thanks God or the universe or whoever’s in charge for not sending him back. He clutches the phone tighter.

            “Hi.”

            Pause.

            “ _I’ve missed you,_ ” she says quietly, like it’s a secret.

            It feels like breathing again.

            “I’ve missed you, too,” he says in much the same tone.

            “ _Just, hard week._ ”

            He nods. He wants to ask but that hasn’t worked out so well in the past.

            “ _Are you busy today?_ ”

            For a moment he forgets what day it is.

            Sunday.

            “Not until the afternoon, and I could always call out, if—”

            “ _Do you—can I take you somewhere?_ ”

            Anywhere.

            “Of course.” He looks at his alarm clock. 8:30 am. “Do you want me to meet you, or should I come by your flat?”

            “ _You remember where I live?_ ” she sounds surprised, not weirded out.

            _How could I ever forget?_ he wants to ask.

            “Yeah, I think so,” he says instead.

            “ _Okay. 9:30?_ ”

            “Yeah, perfect.” He smiles and remembers she can’t see him. “I’ll be there.”

            “ _Okay._ ”

            “Rose?”

            He can hear her breathing, listening, waiting for him to say—what?

            _I’m sorry, too._

 _I missed you_ so _much._

_I’m here._

_I’m so glad I met you._

_I love you._

            “See you.”

            “ _See ya, Doctor._ ”

            She hangs up.

            He breathes.

            For the first time all week, he feels like things are going to be okay.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel really on the fence about this chapter. The stuff with Rose—it makes sense to me, but I’m not sure how well I explained it/what the reception will be. I’d love to talk about it though if anyone’s curious or feels dissatisfied with it or something.

_so won’t you please just take my hand, and take my whole life too_

**-**

            He stops by the shop. Donna’s there, and she takes one look at him and says, “Spill.”

            “Can I have the day off?”

            “Why?”

            “Rose.”

            She raises an eyebrow. “Things work out?”

            He shrugs. “I’m not sure. But I’m going—she called me this morning, and I’m gonna—”

            “Yeah, take the day.”

            He smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”

            “Hold, on, let me get coffee for you to take.”

\---

            He’s standing outside her flat and he can’t bring himself to knock. He finished his coffee on the way over, and now he’s buzzing with energy and nerves and when he finally does knock he has the ridiculous impulse to run.

            She answers the door and he has another impulse, but it’s definitely not one he can act on.

            “Hi,” he says. She smiles, and it’s not as bright as he’s used to but it’s miles better than the ones he’s seen this week. He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

            “Hi.”

            “I brought you coffee,” he tells her, holding out the cup. She hugs him instead.

            “Thank you.”

            “Of course.”

            She releases him and he wants to pull her back, and then she’s going back in her flat and he’s debating following her when she reappears with her purse and keys.

            “Shall we?” she asks after she’s locked the door. He nods. Now she takes the coffee, and he takes her free hand in his.

            He wants to ask where they’re going. He wants to ask a lot of things. He doesn’t want to push her, though. That she’s asked him here, is taking him to wherever—that’s enough, for now. It’s a start, and he’s grateful for it.

            “So, how were classes this week,” she asks.

            Miserable.

            “All right. Busy week.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. I helped grade papers a bit, though,” he tells her.

            “How was that?”

            He shrugs. “Some students have a fine grasp of thermodynamics. Others—well. I’ve recommended them for tutoring.”

            “Will you be their tutor?”

            “Can’t imagine I’d make a great teacher, honestly.”

            She laughs. “True. I can imagine you at the front of the class, just babbling.”

            It hits him like a freight train, the image of them living in the country, maybe, him teaching and her at home, a briefcase of physics exams and a quick kiss while the coffee brews and—

            And he _wants_ it.

            He never wanted any sort of domestics—he was going to be a scientist, researcher, traveler—the life he’d always planned had no room for a mortgage or carpets or in-laws. Children. But—

            He shakes the thoughts away.

            “Yeah,” he agrees. “No teaching for me.”

\---

            The ride on the Tube is unexpected, but she navigates the station and boards with an ease that tells him this is a trip she makes often.  He wonders if this is what she does every Sunday.

            She takes him to a cemetery. It’s unexpected, but he curses himself for being so surprised. He knows—she’d told him about her dad. Except—

            She hasn’t, has she? In this version. She did, once, and she said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, but. When she told him about her family, she only said “my step-dad, Pete,” no explanation about her father. He hadn’t pressed the subject, because he knew, but he’s realizing now—she never told him.

            “My dad died when I was too young to remember. Hit and run accident. They never found who did it.”

            She leads him to a grave marker. _Peter Allen Tyler._

            “My stepdad and my dad have the same name. Funny coincidence, huh?”

            “Yeah.”

            “My mum told me about him a lot when I was growing up, you know? Practically raised on stories of him. His adventures. He had all these ideas, she said. She kept all his things, too. She kept it all packed away in boxes in the cupboard. She used to show me when she had a bit to drink.”

            He tries to imagine Rose as a child, sitting with her mother and looking at photos of a man she couldn’t remember, his knick knacks and trophies, the only things that remained.

            “Do you come here every week?” he asks. It feels like a safe question in a topic riddled with mines. 

            “No. Sometimes every week. Not always.”

            He nods.

            “I started coming more when my mum and Pete started up. Pete’s a great guy, loves my mum, it’s not—I like him a lot. Really. But—” She pauses. Bites her lip. “He’s not my dad. As much as my mum says they’re so alike, he’s not him. And anyway, I was older when they got married. Pete didn’t raise me. He treats me like I’m his daughter, but. It’s different.”

            All he can do is nod though he has no idea, really, what she’s going through—has gone through. Yes, he lost his family, but up to that point he always had them. Rose—Rose has gone her whole life without her father.

            “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She looks at him then.

            “Usually it’s all right, I’m all right, but sometimes it’s not. Sometimes I miss him more than usual, and it’s—I get—”

            “You don’t—I understand,” he says.

            She nods and looks back down.

            “When I was younger I used to have nightmares, sometimes. He died alone, you know. Driver took off. No one was there with him, he just—and I used to have these dreams. I saw it happen but I couldn’t move, like I was frozen, and I just watched him die. All alone.” She stops. “Sometimes I have the dream. Not often. But.”

            Nightmares he knows.

            “I used to—I still—after my family. I got them, too.”

            Anger and fire and dust, the ticking of a clock. Shattering.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods. He hugs her then, and he’s not sure how long they stand there at her father’s grave.

\---

            Everything goes back to normal after that, but it shifts, too. Rose still comes to the shop (almost) every day; they still talk on the phone every night; they still spend his break together on Saturday afternoons. When Wilf comes in one day and tells him he’s working too hard, he’s got Saturdays off now, Saturdays becomes his day with Rose. They travel all around the city, go to exhibits and parks and museums and films, chippies and tea shops and wherever catches their attention.

            Classes are challenging and research is thrilling and sometimes he stays in the library until it closes, but he’s happier than he’s been in a long time—possibly more than he’s ever been.

            Rose is still—they’re still only friends. They go out and it’s very date like but they never discuss labels, and they never do more than hug or hold hands. Not that he doesn’t want more, but he doesn’t want to rush things, stupid as it sounds, and he doesn’t want to lose this thing they have.

            They spend the rest of winter and spring getting to know each other, and ever since that day at the cemetery they’re closer, in a quiet way that doesn’t make a fuss about itself. They’re more affectionate; there’s more banter; there’s a level of trust there.

            When she comes in one day in April with circles under her eyes he understands, and he just smiles at her and squeezes her hand.

            He’s realized that he hasn’t had any nightmares since this whole thing started. In fact, he hasn’t dreamt at all.

            (Sometimes he forgets the redraw the marks after he showers. Eventually he forgets to keep adding them.)

\---

            “ _My friends wanna meet you_.”

            “Yeah?”

            “ _I think they think I’ve made you up._ ”

            “Do you talk about me often, Rose Tyler?”

            He can practically see her roll her eyes.

            “ _We’re going out to the pub tomorrow, if you wanted to come._ ”

            “Who’s we?”

            “ _Shireen, Jack, Mickey, and Jake._ ”

            She’s told him about them, of course. Shireen and Mickey she grew up with. Jack she met later. Jake’s a friend of Mickey’s that’s been hanging around more lately.

            Mickey is also her ex.

            “Well.”

            “ _It’s fine if you don’t. Just figured I’d ask._ ”

 **“** It’s not that I don’t want to.”

            “ _Then what is it?_ ”

            “I just—”

            It’s sort of official, isn’t it? Like he’s the boyfriend meeting the friends, but they’re not dating and he doesn’t—he doesn’t want to just slide into it. If things are going to be official between them he wants it to be intentional.

            More than that, he wants his time with Rose to be his. He doesn’t want to have to share her with other people when they’re together, and it’s stupid, but he knows if he goes out with her and her closest friends, it will be an evening of inside jokes between the lot of them while he sits awkwardly by and is most likely interrogated by Mickey the idiot. (He’s probably not actually an idiot.)

            “ _Don’t do domestics?_ ”

            He’d said it once— _once_ —mostly to himself, but she’d heard it and every so often she brings it up again. And while yes, it’s true that he’s always shied away from such things, he’s finding, more and more everyday, how much he _wants_ such domestic things with Rose. It terrifies him and yes, makes him a bit skittish. But she doesn’t know all that; she just knows that he doesn’t do domestics, not that he wants very much to have all of it with her and is still incapable of expressing himself in such a way as to enable that to happen.

            He hears her sigh on the other end.

            “What time tomorrow?”

            “ _What?_ ” She sounds surprised. He grins to himself.

            “What time are you meeting?”

            “ _Around 8._ ”

            “So I’ll come by around 7:30?”

            “ _Yeah, sure._ ”

            “Brilliant.”

            “ _You’re sure, Doctor?_ ”

            “Yep.”

            He can do this. He can spend the evening with Rose and her friends. He can—yes. It will be great.

\---

            “Donna, I might have done something stupid.”

            “ _Is that supposed to surprise me?_ ”

            “Oi!”

            “ _What is it, Spaceman?_ ”

            “I’m going to meet Rose’s friends today.”

            “ _About bloody time. You met her family yet?_ ”

            “No—why would I?”

            “ _Because it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you two—_ ”

            “Are just friends.”

            “We _are just friends. You and Rose are not._ ”

            “What do I do?”

            “ _Tell her you love her_.”

            “Not about that!”

            “ _Oh, so you admit it?_ ”

            “Donna!”

            “ _Doctor!_ ”

            He sighs.

            “ _Just go, be yourself. No doubt they know all about you._ ”

            “But—”

            “ _You’re stressing yourself out. Relax._ ”

            “Were you nervous when you met Lee’s friends?”

            “ _A bit. But I had him there, and they knew how he felt about me. Just like you’ll have Rose. And if she’s anything like you, they know._ ”

            “Yeah?”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            He smiles.

            “Thanks, Donna.”

            “ _Anytime, Spaceman. See you tomorrow._ ”

\---

            Usually he spends Saturday afternoons with Rose but because they’re going out with her friends she calls him to let him know she’s staying later at her mum’s, she’ll see him at 7:30.

            He gets some work done and then spends a ridiculous amount of time getting ready. Pinstripe suit, tie, chucks. Styles his hair so it sticks up just so.

            Rose smiles when she sees him.

            “I like this tie,” she says. He considers the practicality of wearing it everyday.

            “Ready?”

            She nods and locks the door. He’s wondering if he should grab her hand—what will they think if he and Rose walked in holding hands? But she makes his decision for him and laces their fingers.

            He genuinely loves this. The way her hand fits in his, the way it comforts him, grounds him. It’s a reminder that she’s real and that this thing between them is real, and that it’s not just him who feels something.

            “Nervous?” she teases. She’s smiling that tongue touched smile and he wants to push her up the wall and snog her senseless, friends be damned, but he can’t do that so he fixes his eyes forward.

            “Bit, yeah.”

            “It’ll be fine. They don’t bite, promise. Well, except for Jack.”

            He remembers meeting Jack once. Long time ago.

            Rose squeezes his hand in reassurance. He smiles at her in response.

\---

            “So you the Doctor, then?”

            Mickey the idiot.

            “Yeah. And you must be—”

            “Doctor, this is Mickey, and that’s Shireen, Jake, and Jack.”

            “Pleasure to meet you all,” he says. His palms are sweating.

            “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine,” Jack says with a grin. Rose swats his shoulder.

            “Doctor what, then?” asks Shireen.

            “Yeah,” Mickey chimes in.

            “Smith.”

            “And your first name?”

            “John.”

            Mickey scoffs. John narrows his eyes.

            “Good to meet you, mate,” Jake says. John likes him, he decides. He hasn’t leered at him and he isn’t Rose’s ex and he isn’t looking at him with the critical eye Shireen is.

            He nods.

            “So, _Doctor_ ,” begins Jack.

            It’s going to be a long night.

\---

            It actually ends up being rather fun. He joins Jake and Mickey in a game of darts—and beats them—and he and Jack talk about a time travel after discovering a common love of sci-fi. (“Time Lord is the best description, I think.”) (“Time Agent, because they’re not in control, are they?”) (“Sure they are!”) (“Not always. They utilize time travel but they—”) (“But some _are_ in control.”) (“So there are Time Lords _and_ Time Agents.”) Shireen seems wary of him all evening, and when Rose goes to the bathroom she sits down right next to him.

            “Rose is my best mate and she tells me you’re just her friend but I’m just letting you know, _Doctor_ , you’d best not be turning into Jimmy Stone. You treat her right, you hear, or you’ll have the three of them to answer to. And me.” She steals the last of his beer. “You haven’t met Jackie yet, have you?”

            “No.”

            She smiles at him and he’s feeling a bit threatened when Rose comes back and rests her hand on his shoulder.

            “All right?”

            “Yeah, me and the Doctor were just chatting,” Shireen says with a bright smile. Rose grins.

            “Come on, Doctor, let’s dance.”

            He shakes his head. “No—no, no, no. I don’t dance.”

            “Doctor.”

            “It would—no.”

            “The world doesn’t end if the Doctor dances.”

            “It might.”

            “I’ll dance with you, Rose,” Jack says as he, Mickey, and Jake return to the table.

            “Thank you, Jack.” She takes his hand and shoots John a mock glare.

            It’s true, he doesn’t dance.

            But maybe. Maybe for Rose he would.

\---

            After it’s decided that John will be joining Mickey and Jake’s pub quiz team (“Thursday at 7, don’t be late!”), he and Rose say their goodbyes.

            She rests her head on his shoulder as they walk, humming a bit. She’s not drunk by any means, but the alcohol has loosened her in a way he’s not seen before.

            It’s spring and the air is cool and fresh and it’s late and the streets are empty. They walk in the middle of the road because they can, and it’s a beautiful night and everything is alive and he’d forgotten how to smile, once, but Rose Tyler taught him again, and she is here with her hand in his and—

            He pulls her in toward him, drops one hand to her waist and keeps the other in his palm. She smiles a slow, tender smile. Surprise and delight and warmth. Smile number ten.

            “See? Told you the world wouldn’t end,” she says in his ear as he spins them in slow circles.

            “Only said it might.”

            “Glad you took the risk.”

            “Me, too.”

            “No music?” she asks, teasing.

            “Now you want me to sing, too?”

            She smiles up at him, bats her eyelashes, and he rolls his eyes, making her giggle.

            They fall back into silence.

            “Someday, when I’m awfully low,” he starts, and clearly he had more alcohol than he’d thought, because what is he doing? She looks at him in surprise again, smiles that smile, and he keeps on. “And the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you. And the way you look tonight.”

\---

            He walks her to the door as he always does and part of him wants her to invite him inside and part of him is terrified of changing things. She hugs him and she smells like the pub and flowers and Rose.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler.”

            She kisses him on the cheek. “Good night, Doctor.”

\---

            Some nights he can’t sleep for fear that he’ll wake up and have lost everything, but tonight?

            Tonight he falls asleep smiling. He can still feel where she kissed him.

\-            

_‘cause I can’t help falling in love, falling in love—I keep falling in love with you._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reading and who's commented. Glad you all are enjoying this story. Sorry for the long wait. Hope this chapter's worth it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. Or Harry Potter.

            He wakes up to his alarm. Lazily he throws his arm out to shut it off, and when he opens his eyes to look at his calendar he finds an empty wall. He’s about to chuck the clock at it when he sees the calendar in a heap on the floor, and he sucks in a deep breath.

            It hasn’t reset.

            But he’s gotten lazy.

            He realizes this as he grabs a hammer and nail from the kitchen, as he rehangs his calendar—securely this time. He’s gotten complacent. The marks on his arms and stomach are nearly all gone. Some days he forgets to mark his calendar. He’s getting too comfortable. He’s always aware that it could end, but it’s gotten—

            He counts the marks he can still see—the number makes him dizzy—and writes it on his hip. Then he marks his arm.

            Every day is potentially his last with her.

            He needs to remember that.

            Maybe Donna was onto something.

\---

            Sunday is his least favorite day. Not only because he doesn’t see Rose. That’s part of it, sure.

            It’s just that the shop’s usually slow on Sundays. He sees Sarah Jane usually, and they’ve built up a rapport, but mostly it’s standing around, waiting for customers.

            It gives Donna plenty of time to grill him.

            “How was it?”

            “Fine.”

            “Just fine?”

            He remembers Rose sitting close to him, feeling her against his side. Holding her hand and they walked home. Dancing in the street. He smiles despite himself.

            Donna smiles fondly at him.

            For the rest of his shift she makes comments and asks questions, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much. She’s his biggest cheerleader, when it comes to Rose, and it’s nice to have someone rooting for him.

            He knows Rose cares about him. Sometimes, though, he wonders the exact extent of it. Donna seems to believe she returns his feelings, and the cynic in him is usually inclined to disagreeing, but maybe.

\---

            “Hello.”

            “ _Hello._ ”

            “How was your day?”

            “ _Good. Slept in. Did a bit of tidying up. Went shopping._ ”

            “Yeah?”

            “ _Just groceries._ ”

            “Ah.”

            “ _What about you? How was work?_ ”

            “Slow. Sundays usually are. It’s boring when it’s slow.”

            “ _They liked you, you know. My friends. In case you were wondering._ ”

            He grins. “I liked them, too.”

            “ _Shireen’s even given her stamp of approval._ ”

            “She seemed a bit protective, yeah.”

            “ _We’ve known each other since we were toddlers, practically. Been through everything together._ ”

            He wants to ask about Jimmy Stone. She’s mentioned him a few times, but never—he knows he’s a bloke she dated. He knows something happened. But Rose has never been particularly forthcoming with information about him. Shireen brought him up, though.

            “Including Jimmy Stone?”

            Silence.

            “ _Told you about him, did she?_ ”

            “Mentioned.”

            “ _Yeah? What’d she say?_ ”

            He shrugs even though she can’t see him. “Just, hopefully I’m not like him.”

            “ _You’re not._ ”

            “But what does that mean?”

            “ _That you’re not him._ ”

            “How?”

            “ _Why do you want to know?_ ”

            “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

            “ _Because I don’t feel like talking about him._ ”

            The unspoken “with you” rings in the silence.

            He knows it’s not a big deal. Whoever—whatever Jimmy Stone was, he’s part of Rose’s past, a past she’d rather not remember, apparently. He should let it go.

            But he wants to know all of her. Her past, her fears, everything. If Jimmy Stone had enough of an impact that she avoids talking about him, that Rose’s best friend would sit him down and _tell_ him not to be like him, then yes, he wants to know.

            “Ever?” he asks.

            “ _No,_ ” she says quietly. He hears her sigh. “ _I just don’t want to get into it now._ ”

            “But one day.”

            “ _If you really want to know, then yeah, I guess._ ” She pauses. “ _I don’t understand why you’re making it such a big deal._ ”

            “He was part of your life. And I want to know about your life. All of it.”

            “ _All of it?_ ” she says, like she doesn’t believe him.

            “Yes.”

            Pause.

            “ _That mean you’ll tell me about you?_ ”

            He freezes up.

            “ _That’s what I thought._ ”

            “Rose, that’s not—it’s—”

            “ _Different?_ ”

            Yes.

            “No, but—”

            “ _This has to be a two way street, Doctor. I won’t just go pouring my heart out to you. I wanna know about your life, too. Your past._ ”

            “It’s not worth knowing.”

            “ _Let me decide that._ ”

            She has a point. He knows she has a point. But—

            But what if he tells her and she—

            He isn’t like her. He has—he’s—but she—she is bright and warm and kind, and he is dark and lonely. She doesn’t need any of that in her life.

            And yet—

            He sighs. Makes a decision.

            “I hate pears,” he tells her.

            “ _What?_ ”

            “You want—I’m telling you. About me. I hate pears.”

            He’s trying. He hopes she understands that.

            “ _Pears?_ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Not too fond of them myself._ ” Pause. “ _I only eat toast if it’s burnt._ ”

            He smiles. The air feels lighter. Not light, but.

            He takes a deep breath.

            “The only thing I have left of my family is a pocket watch,” he says quietly. He hears her intake of breath.

            “ _Doctor._ ”

            And it _hurts_. He’s spent so much time, so much energy not thinking about, pushing it aside, not dealing with it—shoved the watch in a drawer and so he wouldn’t see it every day. It’s been years and he’s surprised by how much it still hurts. How raw he feels.

            “It was—it’s been in my family for—for centuries. Passed down. My father gave it to me, and so I had it, when—and now it’s all I have left.”

            He can hear her breathing and it soothes him. Gives him something to focus on outside himself.  

            “ _Do you look at it often?_ ” she asks hesitantly.

            “No. Not in—it’s been years.”

            Pause.

            “ _My dad—he bought this pink teddy bear at the hospital shop, day I was born. It’s the only thing I have from him._ ”

            “Do you have it—do you keep it with you?”

            “ _When I was little, yeah. Then I packed it away. Easier._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Sometimes I miss it, though._ ”

            He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He listens to her breathing and it helps.

            “ _Doctor?_ ”

            “Yeah?”

            “ _Thank you._ ”

            He shakes his head. “Thank _you._ ”

            He wishes he were better with words. Wishes he could explain to her exactly what she means to him, how she’s helped him. He wishes he could express how beautiful she is, how lucky he is to know her, how the universe is better for Rose Tyler being in it. He thinks sometimes that she doesn’t know these things. He gets the feeling sometimes that she is unaware of or disbelieves how brilliant she is. He wants to reassure her that she is special, that she is important, that her smile has healed him in ways time hasn’t—couldn’t.

            But he _isn’t_ better with words, and if she were with him now he would hug her, hold her, _show_ her, but—   

            “ _I’ll see you tomorrow._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Good night, Doctor._ ”

            “Rose—”

            He stops.

            He can’t.

            “Good night.”

            He hears the call disconnect.

\---

            He pulls the watch out of its drawer. Buried under papers and napkins and pens. Silver and a little scratched. He holds it in his palm, listens to the ticking, feels the gears inside it. Time passes and he can almost feel it.

            That night he holds his watch and cries for everything he lost and everything he could lose, the starts and stops and resets and loss.

            He sets it on his bedside table, beside his alarm clock. Marks another day.

            The ticking lulls him to sleep, and it’s so familiar his heart aches.

            (He doesn’t dream.)

\---

            When he wakes up he feels more rested than he has in months.

            He goes to work and the sight of Rose warms him, and God he wants—wishes there wasn’t a counter between them.

            “Morning,” he says.

            “Morning.”

            “Another week,” he says as he draws her name on a cup.

            “Yep. I’m looking forward to summer.”

            “Me, too.”

            He’s almost forgotten what summer feels like, he was stuck so long in winter.

            “Are you doing summer courses as well?”

            “Only one.”

            It was inevitable, but still. One course won’t be so bad.

            “Well, have a good day.”

            “Yeah, you too.”

            He watches her go.

\---

            Finals come by in a flurry of exams and studying and papers and problem sets. He takes time off work and barricades himself in the library, thermos of coffee and headphones, tucked in his own corner.

            One night Rose comes looking for him. She drags him away from his books and they get chips and she hugs him and gives him a kiss on the cheek as she leaves him on the library steps.

            Another night she brings him coffee and sits with him as he studies, reading Harry Potter. The sixth book is coming out soon, and she’s pre-ordered her copy as well, and they’ve already made plans to go to a midnight book release party together. He looks up at one point and the sight of her sitting across from him, reading glasses perched on her nose, chewing her thumbnail as she reads, their coffee cups beside each other on the desk—

            She looks up at him then and grins, and his stomach does that flippy thing it does sometimes when she’s near, and his heart speeds up, and he smiles back.

            She stays with him until the library closes. The night air is warm and he points out the constellations they can see through the city lights and smog. He walks her home and she kisses him on the cheek again and part of him thinks he could be satisfied with just this.

            (But he wants _more_.)

\---

            “So, Spaceman.”

            “Donna.”

            “You ever gonna make things official with Rose?”           

            Every Sunday she grills him about his relationship with Rose.

            “Things are fine as they are.”

            She scoffs.

            He’s a coward. He’s always been a coward. He just wants—he’s scared of what he wants. How much he wants it.

            “She’s not gonna wait around forever. I wouldn’t.”

            “I know.”

            “So do something.”

\---

            Rose comes in for blueberry muffin Thursday with a smile on her face. It’s a new smile, though. Number 11. A touch more mischievous than the others. She’s clearly pleased with herself.

            “What did you do?” he asks with a grin of his own.

            She opens her bag and pulls out a tie. It’s blue, with thin brown stripes. Like his suit, but in reverse.

            “For the midnight release party,” she explains. “Obviously you’re Ravenclaw.”

            He’s so in love with her in this moment his heart feels like it might burst. If only he had two. One for normal functions. One for Rose.  

            “It’s perfect.”

            “I thought so. Here,” she motions him to lean forward. He does.

            She lifts his collar and wraps the fabric around his neck, ties it. She’s not looking at him, focusing instead on the task at hand, but he watches her. He could kiss her. She’s so close, just a few inches—

            “There,” she says, tightening it a bit and turning his collar back down and pulling back. “Don’t spill any coffee on it. You need it for tomorrow.”

            “I won’t.”

            Donna hands Rose her coffee; he hasn’t even rung her up yet. Rose slides a few bills across the counter.

            “See you later. Thanks, Donna,” she adds with a smile.

            “See you later, Rose,” Donna says. She nudges his side.

            “Talk to you later, Rose,” he tells her. “And thanks.”

            She smiles. “Bye.”

            Donna hits him upside the head when Rose is out of sight.

            “You had your moment and you blew it!”

            “Oi!”

            “I almost give up!”

\---

            He picks Rose up at her flat before the book party. She’s wearing her glasses and it’s ridiculous what those frames do to him.

            “Looks good on you,” she says, playing with his tie a bit, and he forgets to breathe for a moment. She smirks at him as if she knows this, and he realizes—she’s _flirting_ with him. Really and truly _flirting_.

            He doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information so he just smiles at her and offers his arm, and off they go to the bookstore.

            He gets into a debate with a group of 16 year olds, and several times has to bite his tongue to prevent spoiling the as-yet-unreleased book, but it gets quite heated and books are grabbed from shelves as the group of them argue, quoting and adjusting glasses and robes, waving fake wands. Rose just stands by and watches him.

            He wins, for the record, not that it was a proper debate—but he won.

            He might have information they don’t, but whatever. Details.

            “I won that,” he reminds Rose as they wander through the shop.

            “I know, Doctor.”

            “You bet you do.”

            There’s a countdown at midnight and the tradition is to kiss someone on New Year’s and not Harry Potter day but with the way Rose is looking at him—

            “Ron’s a bit useless isn’t he?” he hears someone say. He whips around to face them.

            “ _Bullshit_.”

            And so another debate begins.

\---

            They leave the shop around 2 am with their new books under their arms. Rose is positively giddy.

            “So, tomorrow afternoon we’ll compare notes, yeah? Check in where we are,” she says.

            “Actually, uh.” He rubs his neck. He might be doing a very stupid thing. “I was wondering—and it might be ridiculous, but I was wondering if—if maybe you’d like to come over, and we can read. Together.”

            “When?”

            “Now. Just—spoilers, and it might be better if we stick together and read and . . .” he trails off, eyes on the ground. They’ve stopped walking. He might’ve done a very stupid thing. What was he thinking, inviting her to spend the night, what—

            “Yeah, okay,” he hears her say. He looks up at her.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.” She links arms with him again. “Never seen where you live.”

            He smiles.

\---

            “Welcome,” he says as he unlocks the door.

            He wishes he’d had the foresight to clean a little, but Rose doesn’t seem to mind the mess. She just plops down on his couch, slips off her shoes and rests her feet on the coffee table. And it feels natural, and she fits, and his heart might burst with how happy he is to see her here, in his space.

            “Want coffee?” he asks as he toes off his trainers.

            “Yes please.”

            He goes into the kitchen and begins to make it, pulls out the grounds and fills the pot with water.

            “One of these days I’m gonna make you coffee, Doctor. You’re always the one serving me,” she calls from the living room.

            The images hit him hard—her in a kitchen—a different kitchen—a house in the country—them—together—lazy Saturdays and kisses as the coffee brews and—

            He smiles.

            “I’m looking forward to it.”

\---

            They start at opposite ends of the couch, feet on the coffee table, books in one hand, coffee mugs in the other. By the time Rose falls asleep around 6, though, she’s leaning up against him. He gingerly pulls her glasses off, marks her page with a napkin, and sets her book on the coffee table. He puts his own book down, wraps an arm around her, and lets himself drift off.

            Rose Tyler is here, in his flat, on his couch, sleeping with her head on his shoulder. It’s more than he could have asked for.

            He falls asleep.

\---

            He wakes up to a phone ringing and it’s jarring, but several things are confusing as he gains consciousness.

            For starters, the ringing phone is new and unfamiliar. Second, he’s sleeping sitting up on his couch. Third, there’s a weight on his right side.

            “What time is it?” Rose asks blearily.

            “Dunno,” he replies as his eyes try to focus. Why is the room so bright?

            “Where’s my phone?”

            He shrugs and Rose gets up and that’s when he realizes: Rose is here. In his flat, on his couch, with him. sleeping. Or, she was. Currently she’s digging through her purse looking for the source of that incessant ringing.

            “I hate your ringtone,” he tells her.

            “At this moment so do I,” she replies. He stretches and lets the events of the past few hours flow back into his brain. The book release. Coming back to his flat. Reading. Falling asleep. He smiles softly.

            “Hello?” Rose says into the phone.

            He wishes this morning could’ve gone differently. That they could’ve woken more slowly. That he’d been able to savor the moment. As it is he’s currently on his couch and Rose is across the room and his arm is cold without her.

            “Sorry, overslept,” she says.

            “Yeah, the book release, I told you.”

            “No, I am.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll be there in an hour.”

            “Less. Thirty minutes.”

            “I know.”

            “No.”

            “I said I’d be there. I just need to go—”

            “I need to stop by my flat—”

            “That’s not—”

            “ _No._ ”

            “I’ll be there.”

            “No.”

            “Because—”

            “Fine, I’ll ask.”

            “Okay. See you later.”

            “Bye.”

            She hangs up her phone and stretches. His eyes focus on the sliver of skin that’s revealed as her shirt rides up. He tears his eyes away as she faces him.

            “Hi,” she says, a little shyly.

            “Hi.”

            “Sorry about that.”

            “No, no problem. What time is it?”

            “Eleven.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah. My mum. I was supposed to go over, and—”

            “Saturday, right.”

            “Yeah.” She sounds surprised that he remembers.

            “Um, d‘you want me to walk you home?” he asks as he gets to his feet.

            “No, that’s all right, I can manage,” she says, grabbing her glasses and book.

            “You sure?”

            He doesn’t want to leave her yet.

            “Yeah.” She stops as she slips her shoes on. “Actually—my mum, she—you’re invited for tea. If you’d like to come.”

            Nothing about this seems wise or comfortable or anything like what he would ever want to do. Meeting the family? Saturday tea? He feels claustrophobic just thinking about it, and it must show on his face.

            “I told her you’d probably say no, but I figured I’d at least ask. It’s fine, really.”

            He bristles a little at that.

            “What do you mean, I’d probably say no.”

            She laughs—actually laughs. “Come on, Doctor. You hate this sort of thing.”

            “That’s not true!”

            “You wanna meet my mum then?”

            He backpedals. “I didn’t say that.”

            “It’s fine, honest, I get it. You don’t do domestics, you’ve said.”

            But he didn’t mean—

            “Give me ten minutes and then we’ll go.”

            She raises an eyebrow. “You’re only doing this to prove a point aren’t you?”

            “No!”

            Yes.

            “You really want to come to tea?”

            “Well, I was invited, wasn’t I?”

            He has no interest in meeting Rose’s mother and getting interrogated about his intentions, what is he doing?

            “You’re serious?”

            And yet he finds he _does_ want to go.

            “It’s probably time I met your family, isn’t it? We’ve been—”

            He doesn’t even know how to finish that statement.

            “Ten minutes,” he says instead.

            “Okay.”

            He runs to his room to grab fresh clothes, takes the fastest shower he’s probably ever taken, and then rushes back into the living room. Rose is sitting on the couch again, reading. He stops.

            He wants this. He’d known, but seeing it—he wants _this_. With her.

            Rose looks up at him and smiles.

            “Ready?”

            “Yeah,” he says, more confidently than he feels.

            She grabs his hand as they leave.

\---

            “Should we stop and get something? Biscuits maybe? I feel like I should bring something.”

            “It’s fine, Doctor.”

            “Flowers?”

            “You don’t need to bring anything.”

            “But it’s your mother.”

            “So?”

            So. He’s in love with Rose. And even though she’s an adult, her mother’s opinion will always mean something. And he wants—needs that opinion to be favorable.

            She squeezes his hand.

            “Thank you,” she says softly.

            “For what?”

            “For coming. Means a lot.”

            He looks at her then, and it hits him: she _wants_ him to meet her mother. He’d assumed it was all her mother’s doing, that she didn’t care one way or another, but he realizes that she does care. That she wanted him to meet her friends, that she wants him to meet her family. That his coming to tea matters to her.

            He squeezes her hand and smiles.

            The car comes to a stop and she stands, dragging him onto the platform.

            He’s meeting Rose’s mother.

            God help him.


	14. Chapter 14

            If he felt threatened by Shireen, well. Shireen has _nothing_ on Jackie Tyler. Torchwood, now, not Tyler. She took her husband’s name.

            Rose walks in—it’s her mother’s house, of course she just walks in—and he follows her, electing _not_ to hold her hand this once because he’s a coward, and then he’s standing in front of Jackie who’s looking at him with narrowed eyes.

            “So you’re the doctor.”

            “Yes, hello, nice to meet you, I’ve—”

            “Save it.”

            He resists the urge to run but barely.

            “Doctor, this is my mum. Mum, the Doctor. Or, John.”

            He smiles—he hopes charmingly. Jackie’s eyes remain narrowed.

            “You have a lovely home,” he tries.

            “Thank you,” she says like she doesn’t mean it.

            “Rose?”

            He looks up and there’s a little boy at the top of the stairs and John has never been so excited to see a child. He could hug him.

            “Tony!” Rose says. Tony races downstairs and Jackie crosses her arms, still eying John critically.

            Tony runs at Rose and she picks him up and something in John’s heart stutters, seeing it.

            “Rose, the new book came out!”

            “I know!”

            “Dad’s picking it up on his way home!”

            “That’s wonderful!”

            “Have you got one yet?”

            “Yeah, my friend and I went at midnight to get ours,” she says, and Tony glances at John then. John smiles. Rose sets Tony down.

            “Tony, this is my friend John. I call him Doctor, though.”

            “How come?”

            “’Cause he’s going to be a Doctor.”

            “Like Dr. Wyatt?”

            “Not that kind, sweetheart,” Jackie says.

            “There are other kinds?”

            “Yep,” John says. “I’m getting a doctorate in astrophysics.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Means I study stars and stuff.”

            “Cool.”

            John smiles.

            “You like Harry Potter?” Tony asks.

            “Yep. I hear you do, too.”

            Tony nods. “Mum won’t read them ‘cause she says they’re long and boring but she’s _wrong,_ but Rose talks about them with me.”

            John nods.

            “Are you Rose’s boyfriend then?”

            He splutters. “Well—”

            “Now, Tony, why don’t you go grab the biscuits and bring them to the sitting room,” Jackie says, but she’s grinning. He thinks he fears this more than the stare she’d fixed on him earlier.

            “But is he?” Tony asks as she ushers him into the other room.

            John rubs the back on his neck and looks down.

            “Sorry about that,” Rose says finally.

            “No, it’s fine,” he says, but he’s sure his face is red. “Kids.”

            “Yeah. Kids.”

            He glances up at her and her cheeks are a bit flushed, too, and once again he wants to push her up against the nearest wall and her snog her senseless but he can’t— _especially_ not in her mother’s home. He’s known Jackie all of five minutes and knows that’s the fastest way to get a slap and he’d rather _not_ , thanks.

            “Shall we?” Rose says. He nods.

            “Yeah. Lead the way.”

            She doesn’t take his hand and he understands, he does, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing.

\---

            Jackie does _not_ interrogate him about his intentions. She _does_ make snide comments about the fact that he works in a coffee shop and isn’t even a proper doctor. At one point she asks what exactly one does with a degree in astrophysics.

            Rose defends him—or tries—which makes him feel worse, and he tries to answer Jackie’s questions as best he can. He understands where she’s coming from, though. He’s just this bloke her daughter’s been hanging around—bloke in a dead end job, going to school for a doctorate in an obscure field, who’s never been around to tea before, who isn’t even _officially_ dating Rose.

            He would hate him, too.

            Tony likes, him, though, but Tony’s eight so he probably likes everyone. He explains to John that he’s on Goblet of Fire and he _loves_ it but it’s a bit long, so it’s taking him a while to get through it. They talk about Tony’s favorite subjects in school, and when Tony finds out John doesn’t follow football he spends nearly an hour explaining the rules and the last season and why his favorite team is the best team.

            His favorite part of the afternoon, though, is getting to watch Rose with Tony. She’s good with him. She listens to all his stories with absolute sincerity, asks questions, ruffles his hair, makes his tea for him.

            At one point he’s so engrossed watching them that he misses Jackie asking him a question, and when he notices he turns to see her looking at him with an almost tender expression that makes him want to hide under a rock or something.

            Around 4 (how did it get so late?) he and Rose say their goodbyes. Tony asks if he’s going to come back again, and when John says, “Of course,” Rose gives him a look he hasn’t seen before.

            He thanks Jackie for tea and she smiles at him a little before giving Rose a big hug.

            “Bye, Doctor!” Tony calls as they walk away.

            “He’s not a doctor yet, Tony,” Jackie says.

            “But that’s what Rose calls him!”

            John chuckles to himself.

            “What?” Rose asks.

            “Nothing. Your brother’s funny.”

            “He is,” she agrees. He grabs her hand then, _finally_ —he’d wanted to all afternoon but knew it would raise questions from Jackie and Tony—and smiles at her.

            “That was nice.”

            “Yeah? Mum didn’t scare you away?”

            “Think it’d take more than your mum to scare me away.”

            She smiles at him and this—he wants to capture this moment. Sear it onto his heart, memorize it, frame it. Just this.

            The urge to kiss her is always there, these days, but it’s almost overpowering now. He wonders if she can tell. He wonders—

            His phone rings.

            _Bollocks._

            “Hello?” he says, barely biting back a sigh of frustration.

            “ _John, hey._ ”

            It’s Martha. Of course it’s Martha.

            “Hey, what’s—”

            “ _Can you cover for me tomorrow morning? I know you’ve got the afternoon but—_ ”

            “Yeah, sure,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. Rose is watching him. “What time?”

            “ _Starts at 8. Sorry! I owe you one, John, you’re a lifesaver. Thanks!_ ”

            “Yeah, anytime. Bye.”

            “ _Bye._ ”

            He hangs up. Sighs.

            “What’s up?” Rose asks.

            “Work. Covering for Martha in the morning.”

            “That’s nice of you.”

            He’s not exactly feeling charitable at this moment but he’ll let her think so.

            “Any plans for tomorrow?” he asks as they walk to the Tube.

            “Probably just read. Might go, maybe, to—” she doesn’t finish, but he knows.

            “Yeah?”

            She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

            He nods. They don’t talk about it ever, really, but it’s there, it’s understood. They’ve shared pieces of themselves with each other and they don’t make a fuss about it but they trust each other now with these pieces. Trust each other not to bring it up, to listen when they do decide to talk about it.

            And she said it had to be a two way street, so—

            “I didn’t—um. I pulled out the watch. My—I’ll have to show you. Next time,” he says.

            “Yeah?” she asks softly.

            He shrugs. “If you want.”

            She smiles. “I’d like that.”

            He pauses. “I keep it on the—by my bed. Listen to it as I fall asleep. I lived—it was a factory town. Made watches. All my family, going back—always. Everyone did. There.”

            He’s not told anyone about Gallifrey since—

            Rose squeezes his hand. It’s a reassurance that she’s there, that she’s listening, that she supports him, that he can keep going or stop and she’ll still be here.

            He squeezes her hand back. It’s a thank you.

            He doesn’t say anymore on the topic. They turn to other things—summer and the quiz team and the book so far.

            He drops her off at her flat and she hugs him tight, gives him a quick peck on the cheek.

            He falls asleep as soon as he gets home, the ticking of the pocket watch filling the silence.

            He still doesn’t dream.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm clock. Shuts it off, knocks the pocket watch to the floor in the process. That gets him up.

            It’s not broken or scratched—made of more durable stuff than that—and he puts it back on the stand. He hates himself for agreeing to take this shift.

            Still, he agreed, so he gets ready and goes to work.

            He handles the early morning by himself, and then Donna comes in.

            “Covering for Martha,” he explains. She nods.

            “How was the book release?” she asks with a grin. She’s been teasing him about it all week. He smiles.

            “It was fun.” He wonders if he should tell her. “Met Rose’s mum.”

            “How’d that happen?”

            “She called ‘cause Rose was late for tea, and invited me ‘round.”

            He can’t meet Donna’s eyes.

            “And _why_ was Rose late for tea?”

            “She came back to my place, after the bookstore.”

            Donna’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs.

            “Not like that! We just read!”

            “Yeah, sure. _Reading._ ”

            “Oi, I mean it! And we fell asleep and then her mum called and we went for tea and I met her and Rose’s little brother.”

            Donna smiles, a little softer.

            “Yeah? How was it?”

            He shrugs but he’s smiling.

            “Her mum might hate me a little but Tony and I got on.”

            “Yeah? And what’s that smile?”

            “Just—she’s good with him. Her brother.” He shrugs again.

            It’s ridiculous, really, how seeing her with her brother made him feel. Like—and wanting—and—

            “So you going to ask her out yet?”

            He shrugs. Donna rolls her eyes but just then the bell above the door rings and Rose walks in and it’s _Sunday_ but she’s _here_ and his heart feels like it might burst out if his chest.

            “Hi,” he says. She grins.

            “Hey.”

            “What are you doing here?”

            Donna hits him.

            “I just—it’s Sunday.”

            She shrugs. “I was going to sit and read anyway. Figured I could do that here.”

            “Yeah?”

            She smiles.

            “Yeah.”

            He rings up her order and she goes and sits in her seat by the window and he feels calmer, somehow, better, just having her there, seeing her out of the corner of his eye as he works.

            On his break they walk across the street to get sandwiches and she tells him about the book so far and she doesn’t know he’s already read it but he loves watching her eyes light up as she explains, and he nods and acts surprised and she asks why he doesn’t mind being spoiled and he just shrugs and says he’s still going to read it, anyway.

            She goes home after that—after a hug and another kiss on the cheek—and Donna hits up upside the head when he gets back to the shop.

            “Man up and do something, Spaceman.”

            “I know, I know.”

\---  

            He gets home, does some work, and then starts to research. Ages ago he and Rose had talked—the first time, one of the first times, and—he has an idea.

            He’s not sure if she’ll agree to it, but it’s worth at least asking.

            Any day could be his last with her, anyway.

\---

            A week passes. He sees Rose in the morning and in the evenings they talk and Thursday is quiz night at the pub.

            She doesn’t come in this Sunday, but it’s okay. Because she has, and it’s enough.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm.

            His head is pounding and he glances at the wall and the calendar is still there. He marks his arm and swallows an Advil before he brushes his teeth. He feels terrible and he looks terrible and he wants to go back to sleep. He throws some water on his face and gets ready, waiting for the Advil to kick in.

            It’s Monday. He’s never hated Mondays so much. More than anything he wants to crawl back into bed and sleep a few more hours but he can’t.

            Donna catches on pretty quick to his mood; she pours him a coffee and asks if he’s feeling all right. He tells her yes—a lie—and smiles for Rose who looks concerned.

            “I’m fine,” he repeats. She doesn’t look like she believes it, but she says goodbye and leaves and he watches her go and his head still hurts.

            The sore throat starts around 10, and by 12 his eyes are watering and his nose is running and he’s feeling warm. Donna calls in Amy, a new hire, and sends him home with an order not to come in tomorrow.

            He falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow.

\---

            His phone is ringing. He doesn’t have the energy to get up and answer it. It stops.

            A few minutes later it rings again. He gets up, shuts it off without checking it, drinks a glass of water, and goes back to bed.

            He falls asleep.

\---

            When he wakes up again the sun is shining. He’s warm, too warm, and he kicks off the blankets and the sheets are on fire and he falls asleep before checking the time.

\---

            There’s a knocking sound and he jerks awake. It’s 5:30. Must be pm. The sun’s out like it wouldn’t be if it were am. He’s still in his work clothes and he’s far too warm still and he starts to unbutton his shirt as he makes his way to the door. If it’s a door to door salesman he’s going to murder someone. Probably the salesman. Or maybe he’ll just breathe on them. Pass on this death disease. He feels like death. Why is he walking again?

            The knocking starts up again. Right. The door.

            He opens it and he might pass out so he hopes it’s not a robber or something.

            “Doctor?”

            Not a robber. Rose. He should warn her.

            “I might be dying.”

            Blimey, is his voice always that scratchy?

            “What?”

            “Feel like dying. You should go.”

            She looks concerned. “You didn’t answer your phone yesterday and Donna said you were sick, so I brought you some soup.”

            Yesterday?

            “What day is it?”

            “Oh, Doctor.”

            Rose moves past him into his flat and he would protest but he’s too tired.

            “When the last time you ate? Forget I asked.”

            The door is still open. He should close it.

            “Do you wanna sit on the couch or would you rather be in bed?”

            No, not like that, he reminds himself. That’s _not_ what she’s asking.

            “Couch,” he says because he doesn’t quite trust himself.

            “Okay. Sit down, I’ll get you some water.”

            He plops onto the couch. He would turn on the TV but the remote is far. He just sits. He’s thirsty. And hungry. Huh. What day is it again?

            “Here you go. Drink all of it.”

            Rose is suddenly right there handing him a large glass of water and it’s cool to the touch. She puts a hand to his forehead and makes a concerned sound. He wants to ask her to just sit with him but then she’s moving away again and okay. All right. That’s fine, then.

            “Drink, Doctor.”

            He does. Water is _glorious_ , how had he forgotten? He drinks it all in one go. Rose is back and she takes the glass from him. A minute later she’s back and it’s full again. Like magic.

            He has three more glasses of water and he’s still warm.

            “You’ve got a shirt on under this one?” Rose asks.

            He looks down at his half unbuttoned shirt. Yes. He does. Why is he wearing two shirts?

            “Why am I wearing two shirts?”

            “Take this one off,” Rose says, and he slowly unbuttons it the rest of the way and shrugs out of it. “You have a fever.”

            That makes sense.

            He nods. Rose is folding his shirt and the sight makes him smile.

            “Thank you,” he says. She looks over at him and smiles, reaching to brush his hair off his forehead.

            “Tired still?”

            He nods. But if he goes back to sleep she’ll leave. He shakes his head. She gives a small laugh.

            “Come on, you should get back to bed.”

            “Not tired anymore.”

            “You need your fever to break.”

            “Sleeping won’t break it.”

            “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

            “Not true.”

            True.

            Rose stands and reaches for his hands, pulls him up. She walks him to his room and maybe he pretends to be weaker than he is so she wraps her arm around his waist. Maybe.

            She helps him get into bed and picks up the blankets he threw to the floor. Folds them, sets them at the edge of the bed. God, he loves her.

            “Are you leaving now?” he asks.

            “I’ll be back in a minute,” she says as she leaves the room. She comes back a moment later with a wet cloth.

            “Are you gonna leave now?” he repeats.

            “I can stay for a little bit,” she says. He smiles. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

            She kisses him on the forehead and his skin already feels like it’s on fire and that doesn’t help. And it’s such a—it’s such a mum thing he almost feels like crying.

            And he hopes this kissing thing of hers sticks.

            She puts the cloth on his forehead and then goes. He watches her leave the room, closing the door a little after her.

            He falls asleep.

\---

            He wakes up sweating. The sheets are wet and his shirt is soaked and he feels gross but better than he did. He sits up slowly. The clock says 9 and he can hear the TV. Gingerly he gets out of bed.

            “Rose?” he calls. His voice is scratchy from being unused.

            “Yeah?” she says, coming to meet him in the hallway. She smiles. “Feeling better?”

            “Think my fever broke,” he tells her. She brushes the hair off his forehead and rests her hand there a moment.

            “Yep. Hungry?”

            He nods.

            “Why don’t you take a quick shower and I’ll heat up your soup,” she says. He nods again and heads back to his room.

            As he showers he contemplates the events which have led to Rose Tyler in his flat taking care of him. He’s always hated being sick but luckily rarely ever is. He can’t remember that last time he had someone to take care of him, though.

            It’s nice.

            When he returns to the living room Rose has a bowl of soup waiting for him. While he eats she goes to change his sheets because she’s a saint, and then she sits with him and watches telly.

            “I should get going,” she says.

            “Stay.”

            He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She’s looking at him and he rushes to explain.

            “I just—it’s late,” he says. “And you could—you could stay. Here. Just, so you’re not walking home by yourself. Late. At night. Which it is.”

            She smiles as he trips over himself. “If you don’t mind, I guess I could—”

            “I don’t.”

            “Okay then.”

            She takes his empty soup bowl and goes back to the kitchen. He looks down and notices the fading marks on his arms. Dammit.

            “Can I borrow something to sleep in, then?” she asks from the kitchen.

            What has he gotten himself into?

            “Sure. I’ll go get something right now.”

            He pulls out an old t-shirt and gym shorts for her, and sits on his bed twiddling his thumbs while she changes.

            “So I’ll take the couch then, yeah?”

            “What?”

            “You’re still sick, you’re taking the bed.”

            “Yeah, but—”

            It’s big enough, he wants to say. We could fit. It’s more comfortable than the couch. Stay with me.

            She watches him struggle.

            “We could share,” he settles on. She quirks an eyebrow and he feels stupid. He hopes he’s not blushing like a fucking teenager.

            “You’re sure?”

            He nods, refusing to meet her gaze.

            “What time is your alarm set for?”

            “What?”

            “I’ll have to go by my flat in the morning to get ready. What time?”

            “Um. 6:30,” he says.

            “That should be all right.”

            She places her clothes on the dresser and then gets into bed and he shuts off the light, hoping he doesn’t trip on his way back to the bed.

            “Good night, Doctor.”

            “Good night, Rose.”

            “Feel better, yeah?”

            “I already do,” he replies. She smiles. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

            “Of course.”

            _I love you._

            “Good night.”

            “Night.”

            He falls asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

            He wakes up alone.

            He’d sort of expected that, though.

            The calendar is still on the wall and he marks off the days. It’s Wednesday. Marks his arm, too.

            He feels loads better, but he misses Rose.

            When he gets to the kitchen he finds that she left him a note.

_Doctor,_

            _You sleep like the dead_. _Hope you’re feeling better. I called Donna and told her you wouldn’t be in today. There’s more soup in the fridge, and have tea, not coffee. And water. Don’t forget to drink lots of water. And rest._

_Talk to you later._

_Love, Rose._

And it’s ridiculous how much that ‘love’ affects him, but suddenly he’s grinning like an idiot and his heart is hammering in his chest and that’s probably not good for his immune system but oh well.

            He drinks two glasses of water and heats up some soup. Turns on the TV and eats. Drinks some more water, falls asleep again on the couch.

            He wakes up and eats some more, makes himself some tea. He wishes he had Rose’s work phone number. It’s really quite boring. He tries doing work but then he starts to get a headache and goes back to TV.

            At 5:30 he calls Rose.

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            “Hi.”

            “ _Hey! You sound better._ ”

            “I feel better. Thank you.”

            “ _No problem. You were pretty out of it yesterday._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Have you been drinking water?_ ”

            “Yes.”

            “ _And did you eat?_ ”

            “Yes.”

            “ _Good._ ”

            Can you come over?

            “So how was your day?” he asks instead.

            “ _Fine. Bit boring._ ”

“Mine, too.”

            “ _You didn’t even have to work!_ ”

            “Exactly! There was nothing to do.” She laughs. “Think I’m feeling good enough to go to work tomorrow, though, so I’ll get to see you.”

            “ _Good. I missed you this morning._ ”

            He grins.

            “Still saw me, though.”

            “ _Not the same, is it? But you look like a little kid when you’re sleeping_.”

            “Really?”

            “ _Yeah. Glad I didn’t wake you, though._ ”

            He wishes she had.

            “Yeah,” he says instead.

            “ _You still sound tired._ ”

            “I’m not,” he protests as he yawns. She giggles.

            “ _Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning._ ”

            “Promise?”

            “ _Yes, Doctor, I promise._ ”

            He can hear her smile and it makes him smile, too.

            “Night, Rose.”

            “ _Good night, Doctor._ ”

            He texts Donna to tell her he’ll be in for his shift.

\---

            July fades into August and his summer course is nearly finished and he has a plan.

            He just needs to talk to Rose.

            About the plan, that is.

            He runs it by Donna and she grins.

\---

            One night he and Rose go to the pub with Donna and Lee. It feels like a double date.

            He doesn’t mind so much.

\---

            “So, I have an idea,” he says one night.

            “ _Yeah?_ ”

            “Yep.”

            “ _Care to share?_ ”

            He rubs the back of his neck. It’s good they can’t see each other; he’s not sure he could work up the nerve face to face.

            “So remember how I told you that the stars—that London’s really quite rubbish for stargazing? All the—the pollution, and smog, and—that’s just another word for pollution isn’t it?—anyway, London’s not—if you really wanna see the stars, London’s not ideal.”

            “ _I remember._ ”

            “So, I was wondering—if you’d like to go. With me. To see the stars. Properly.”

            “ _Not in London._ ”

            “Not in London.”

            “ _Where, then?_ ”

            He shrugs like he hasn’t spent the past few weeks planning this. “I hear Scotland’s nice this time of year.”

            Silence.

            He starts to panic.

            Well, _start_ would imply that he hasn’t been for the duration of this conversation, _start_ implies that he’s only just begun to panic about this next step—leap—he’s suggesting. What was he thinking, clearly he’s misjudged, she’s not interested, she’s going to—

            “ _I’ve never been to Scotland,_ ” she says quietly.

            “I remember. You said—you said you’d never been outside London, not really.”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            “So, do you? Want to go? If not, that’s—that’s fine, I was just—”

            “ _Of course I wanna go. I’m just surprised, is all._ ”

            “Why?”

            “ _That you remembered. That was a long time ago, that conversation._ ”

            And there’s something in how she says it that makes his heart hurt. Something that tells him that Jimmy Stone, that Mickey—they didn’t, wouldn’t have, and she’s grown used to that, that’s become normal for her. And he wants to change that. He wants to show her, more than he ever has—in that moment he wants to show her that he listens, that he remembers, that she matters that much to him that he’s made an effort.

            He shrugs. “Of course I remembered. Great memory, me.”

            Because he does, he does have a great memory—but especially when it comes to her. He remembers everything when it comes to her. Sometimes it feels like he was born loving her. He needs to remind himself sometimes that it’s not the same for her. She hasn’t lived through this thing that he has. That his feelings for her run deep—so deep—in part from the fact that he has known her—gotten to know her—several times, several time streams, across time. It always goes back to Rose Tyler for him. But for her? Her life didn’t reset around his.

            “ _So, Scotland?_ ” she asks.

            “Yeah. Is that—is that okay?”

            “ _Yeah!_ ”

            He grins. “Brilliant. So, um, I might’ve already planned the whole thing.”

            “ _So sure I’d say yes?_ ” she teases.

            “Well, yeah.”

            “ _So when’s our grand stargazing adventure?_ ”

            “Next weekend. Figure, drive up Friday, drive back Saturday. You’ll miss tea with your mum in the morning, but if we get back early enough there’s always dinner, and I already booked a room at this little inn—well, little, used to be this old manor, estate—Torchwood it’s called, funny, isn’t it, that’s Pete’s name, and—”

            “ _You really did plan all of this._ ” And there’s that tone of surprise again.

            “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck again. “There was only one room available but it’s a double room, so.”

            He’d been insistent on that. Sure, they’d fallen asleep on his couch, and slept in his bed that once, but he can’t expect—won’t expect—they’re just friends, and he won’t pressure her or make her think that this trip is some sort of—because it’s _not_. No matter how much he wants it. He won’t make her feel like he’s—like—

            He’d made sure there would be two beds.

            “ _Okay, cool._ ”

            “Cool. So, yeah. That’s—yeah.”

            She’s smiling, he can tell. “ _How long have you been planning all this?_ ”

            Weeks. Maybe a month.

            “Couple of days.”

            “ _Uh huh._ ” She doesn’t believe him. “ _Well, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you tomorrow._ ”

\---

            He sees Tony first. He rushes in, book in hand, and heads straight to the register.

            “Hello Doctor!” he says.

            “Hi, Tony.” He sees Rose walk in just then, and he grins at her before turning back to Tony.

            “I’m on Order of the Phoenix!”

            “Really?”

            Tony nods.

            “Finished last night. Mum and dad are going to some boring party or whatever for dad’s work, so I get to stay with Rose, and she said that this is where _she_ started Order of the Phoenix, too. _And_ she said I can get a muffin if I want.”

            “And what kind of muffin will that be?”

            “Have you got blueberry?”

            “I do indeed.” He pulls one out of the case and smiles at Rose, who’s got her hand on Tony’s shoulder. “That’s your sister’s favorite, too. You oughta share with her.”

            “I will.”

            “Hey, Doctor,” Rose says.

            “Hello.”

            “Rose, can I get hot chocolate, too?”

            “Course you can.”

            “Doctor—”

            “Coming right up.”

            He writes Tony’s name in his best rendition of the Harry Potter font and adds a lightning bolt above the T.

            “Tony, why don’t you go pick out a place to sit,” Rose tells him.

            “Okay. Bye, Doctor!”

            And he rushes off.

            “Lot of energy. Sure all this sugar’s a good idea?” he teases.

            “He’ll be bouncing in his seat, and then I’ll take him to the park to run around, and by 8:30 he’ll crash.”

            “You’ve done this before.”

            “He’s 8, of course I have.”

            He draws her name Harry Potter style, too.

            “Mum’s invited you to dinner next week.”

            “Yeah? When?”

            “Saturday.”

            She told her, then. He wonders what Jackie’s reaction was.

            “Okay,” he says. He tries for nonchalance. She rolls her eyes.

            “Don’t think you’ll be able to get out of this.”

            “I wasn’t going to try—”

            “Well I’m just letting you know. She insisted.”

            He nods.

            Donna puts the drinks on the counter for him to give Rose and then moves away.

            “So you’re taking Tony to the park later?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Cool. Parks are fun.”

            “They are.”

            He hands her the drinks then, and smiles at her. She smiles back and then goes to sit with Tony, who’s already got his book open, half the muffin gone.

            He watches them to see if Tony notices his name. When he does his face lights up, and he shows Rose, and Rose smiles his favorite smile of hers, he thinks, and looks up to meet his eye. He ducks his head, hoping he isn’t blushing. Donna pokes him as she walks by.

            He doesn’t do domestics. Kids? No.

            There’d been a—his girlfriend, when he was younger, she’d had a scare. For two days, he’d thought—and he was 17, but—he’d been plagued by thoughts of kids, grandkids—generations. The weight of it had hit him, and he’d been terrified. Not just the loss of childhood, the loss of free time and his personal life, but also—the fear, the weight of losing such people—all the things that could go wrong, accidents, injuries, disease, death—and he was so happy when the test was negative, and he’d sworn off—decided no, wasn’t for him. He didn’t want to risk losing something so—

            But he looks at Rose. And he sees her with Tony. And he remembers her taking care of him when he was sick. And waking up on his couch, and sitting together as he studied, and—and maybe it’s worth it, or something. Maybe the risks involved are worth it, because maybe what you get outweighs what you might lose.

            He takes his break and goes and sits with Rose and Tony. Tony’s on page 7, but eager to talk about all 7 of those pages. Mostly Rose just watches him.

            He wonders what she sees.

\---

            “ _8:30, like clockwork._ ”

            “Load him up with sugar so he crashes? What kind of sister are you?”

            “ _The best, according to Tony._ ”

            He grins.

            “ _He likes you._ ”

            “He’s a good kid.”

            “ _He was asking why you weren’t coming with us to the park._ ”

            “I had work.”

            “ _That’s what I told him._ ”

            Pause.

            “Maybe next time, then.”

            Pause.

            “ _He’s 8, Doctor._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _He gets attached._ ”

            “He get attached to Jimmy Stone?”

            It’s a low blow, he knows. But she still hasn’t told him anything about Jimmy Stone, and that bothers him far more than he would care to admit. Some nights he entertains the (ridiculous) notion that perhaps she’s still in love with this bloke, that he is nothing more than a placeholder.

            “ _Never met Jimmy Stone,_ ” Rose answers coolly.

            “No? Not a family man?”

            “ _Like you?_ ”

            And yeah, he deserved that. Still stings, though.

            “I’m trying,” he says. She sighs.

            “ _I know you are._ ”

            “For what it’s worth, I wanted to. Go with you two to the park.”

            “ _That’s not the point, though._ ”

            “Then what is the point?”

            “ _You get on with Tony and that’s great, that’s more than I could’ve asked for, but he’s young, and he gets attached, and I don’t want him to if—_ ”

            Right.

            “I’m coming to dinner on Saturday.”

            “ _Doctor._ ”

            “What do you want me to say?”

            “ _Where are your friends?_ ”

            “What?”

            Why is she asking this?

            “ _How long have we known each other, how many months? And I’ve not met a single one of your friends. You have Donna, and you have Martha. So what happened to the others?_ ”

            “They—they moved on. It’s complicated, Rose!”

            “ _Yeah?_ ”

            “Yes!” he defends. “It’s like—it’s like when you make a friend in a class, or through something and you are—you are linked through this common experience, for a moment in time you are close and you are friends and it’s brilliant, but then the class ends, the experience—the moment passes, and you might try to stay in touch but it’s never the same again, and you move on, both of you, because that’s how it is, and that’s—that’s where my friends are, Rose, they’ve moved on, we had our moment and it was great while it lasted but it’s over now and they’re living their lives and I’m living mine and I wish them all the best wherever they are and—”

            “ _You don’t even keep in touch, do you?_ ”

            “Sometimes, but that’s—”

            “ _And what’s this, Doctor? Just another one of your—am I just another one of your friends, and then when our ‘moment’ or whatever ends you’ll, what, disappear, send me Christmas cards?_ ”

            His heart sinks.

            “No, Rose, of course not, that’s—”

            “ _No? You’re so sure that that won’t happen here, you won’t get bored or tired or whatever and move on?_ ”

            “No, not—not with you.”

            His heart’s pounding and his hands are sweating and no, he’s not—it’s not like that, he won’t lose her, not her, not Rose, he can’t—

            “Rose.”

            “ _I’ll talk to you later, Doctor._ ”

            “Rose, wait, don’t—I can’t—they leave me, Rose, not the other—they get tired or bored or whatever, it’s not—”

            And it’s the truth, isn’t it? It’s not that he leaves them. They leave him. And he moves on. Doesn’t get too close, ever, just—

            “It’s different, with you.”

            “ _I want to believe you._ ”

            His heart hurts.

            He hates that tomorrow is Sunday.

            “What do you want me to say?”

            “ _I dunno, Doctor._ ”

            Pause.

            “ _I’ll see you Monday._ ”

            “Promise?”

            She’s not smiling this time.

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            The call disconnects.

\---

            “I fucked up, Donna.”

            She takes one look at him before opening the door wider.

            “Come on, then.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

            “She’s not wrong, you know.”

            “Donna!”

            “You’ve not made her any promises—you haven’t said anything at all, have you? For all you blather on and on, you don’t say much of substance.”

            “That’s not true!”

            “She’s scared, you twat. You’re not making any commitments and she’s scared it’s because you don’t want to—”

            “But I do!”

            “—she’s just not worked out yet that you’re an absolute coward.”

            He buries his head in his hands.

            “What do I do?”

            “Tell her you love her.”

            “I can’t!”

            “Why not?” Donna exclaims, exasperated.

            “If I say it now she’ll think—she’ll think I’m just saying it. Because I’m afraid of losing her.”

            “Newsflash: you are.”

            “But that’s not—”

            “I know, I know.”

            He stands.

            “I’m gonna go over there, right now, I’m gonna—”

            “You will not. Her brother’s there, you’re not causing a scene in front of a child.”

            He deflates. “Right.”

            “Tomorrow you’ll go over.”

            “Yeah.”

            Maybe by tomorrow he’ll know what to do.

\---

            He sleeps on Donna’s couch and wakes up feeling terrible. He’s got a headache, for starters, but that might be the whiskey he drank _before_ going to Donna’s. He swallows an Advil and uses some of Donna’s mouthwash, and then he walks to Rose’s flat.

            He’s decided to wing it.

            If Donna were here she’d hit him, he’s sure.

\---

            Rose answers the door looking like she hasn’t slept much. There are bags under her eyes, and her hair’s a mess. She looks a little surprised to see him and he’s not sure if he should be offended by that, or like he made the right decision in coming. She crosses her arms in front of herself and he fidgets. Talking? Talking sounds good.

            “Is Tony still here? I got him a hot chocolate just in case. And a muffin. If he’s not here you can have the muffin, I suppose, dunno what we’ll do about the hot chocolate, but—”

            “You were wearing that yesterday.”

            He looks down at his clothes. Maybe he should’ve changed before coming here.

            “Yeah.” He drops his eyes to his trainers. “After you called I went to Donna’s. Came straight here. Well, stopped for coffee first.”

            “Why’d you go to Donna’s?”

            “Advice.”

            “Yeah? What’d she say?”

            “That I’m a twat.”

            He chances a look up at Rose and she’s smiling a bit at that.

            “Can I come in?”

            She steps back and opens the door a little wider. He smiles.

            “Tony’s still asleep,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. He sets the coffee tray down on the table and nods. “I’m dropping him at my mum’s later.”

            “Can I come?” he asks hesitantly.

            She doesn’t answer right away.

            “I know you’re worried about him—”

            “It’s not just him, Doctor.”

            He meets her eyes and moves closer and she doesn’t back away and she’s close, now, and she looks tired, and it’s his fault because he’s a coward and he’s upsetting her and he doesn’t want to do that anymore, he wants—

            “Rose, I—”

            “How come the Doctor’s here?”

            He feels like shouting.

            “Hey, Tony,” Rose says, moving away. “Sleep okay?”

            “Are you here for breakfast?” Tony asks, ignoring Rose. John nods.

            “Yep, I even brought it. A muffin and a hot chocolate for Tony, a coffee for Rose—”

            “How come Rose doesn’t get a muffin?”

            “Well, I didn’t think she’d want one.”

            “You can’t _just_ have coffee for breakfast, Doctor. You should know that.”

            He meets Rose’s eye and she’s grinning a bit.

            “I really should, shouldn’t I. Well, what do you usually have for breakfast? Cereal?”

            “Cereal’s _boring_.”

            “Tony,” Rose says.

            “It is.”

            “Think I should make toast for Rose? I make the best toast, you know.”

            “ _You_ don’t make it, the toaster does.”

            “I’ll have you know that I can modify toasters to make perfect toast,” John boasts.

            “Oh yeah, how’s that?” Rose asks.

            “By way of jiggery pokery, of course.”

            Tony giggles.

            “That a technical term, jiggery pokery?” Rose teases.

            “Yep,” he replies, popping the ‘p.’ “I’ve my degree in jiggery pokery, what about you?”

            “Nah, I failed hullaballoo.”

            John grins at her and she grins back, the tongue touched one, and Tony’s still giggling.

            “Well, let’s see it, then,” Rose says, crossing her arms. He searches his pockets for something—anything—and pulls out a screwdriver with a pocket flashlight duct taped to it. Can’t remember why he put it in his trouser pocket, but it’ll do.

            He picks up the toaster, pretends to examine it, then hits it a couple of times with the screwdriver before plugging it in.

            “What’s that?” Tony asks. Good question.

            “My sonic screwdriver,” he says.

            “What’s a sonic screwdriver?”

            “Screwdriver that’s sonic, of course.” He points it at Tony and turns the flashlight on—blue. Interesting.

            He grabs some bread and pops it in the toaster. Rose hands him some plates and puts the jam on the table as she sits. She gets Tony to sit, too, putting his muffin on a plate and his hot chocolate in front of him.

            When the toast is sufficiently burnt he sets it on a plate and gives it to Rose.

            “See? Perfect.”

            The smile Rose gives him then makes his stomach do that flippy thing it does sometimes.

            He makes his own toast then—not burned—and sits with Tony and Rose and listens as Tony tells him about the park and the show he watched on telly before he fell asleep. When he’s finished his muffin and a piece of John’s toast Rose tells him to go brush his teeth and get ready. John clears the plates away.

            “Doctor?”

            He turns.

            Rose hugs him, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer.

            “You remembered,” she mutters into his shoulder.

            “Course I did,” he replies. “I’m sorry.”

            “Doctor—”

            “I’m not good at this,” he admits.

            She squeezes him tighter. “You’re trying, though.”

            He nods.

            She lets go, pulls back. Gives him a peck on the cheek.

            “I’m gonna go get ready. Still wanna come to my mum’s? You don’t have to.”

            He knows she means it, he can skip out and she won’t hold it against him.

            “Yeah, I’ll come. I’ll wait in the living room.”

            She smiles.

            It feels like progress.

\---

            He and Rose don’t hold hands on the way to Rose’s mum’s.

            They each hold one of Tony’s.

            Tony chats the whole way there, and the whole thing is so thoroughly domestic it’s a bit unnerving.

            Not as unnerving as the look Jackie fixes on him when they reach the house.

            “ _Doctor_ ,” she greets. He fights back a wince.

            “Mum, he had breakfast with us!” Tony exclaims.

            “Did he?” Jackie’s eyes don’t leave John. “Did he also have dinner with you two?”

            “Mum,” Rose mutters. John hopes he isn’t blushing.

            “No, just breakfast. He brought hot chocolate and coffee and got me a muffin, mum, and he made Rose toast.”

            “How sweet.”

            Is he withering? He might be withering under Jackie’s stare.

            “Who’s this?”

            And thank God, a distraction.

            “Hello, I’m John. Well, some people call me Doctor.”

            “Ah. That’s you, then. I’m Pete.”

            Not the distraction he wanted.

            “Pete. Right. Nice to meet you.”           

            He should shake his hand, right? Rose’s step-father—they should shake hands. John offers his hand and Pete takes it.

            “You as well,” Pete says. His presence has calmed Jackie—thank God. “Staying for lunch?”

            “Well, I—”

            “He’s got work, so we’ll be off,” Rose says. Tony whines at that. “I’ll see you next week.”

            “And you?” he asks, looking at John.

            “Yep. Coming ‘round for dinner.”

            “Don’t be late,” Jackie warns. He nods.

            Rose says goodbye and pulls him away, and he’s immensely grateful.

            “Sorry ‘bout my mum,” she says.

            “No, don’t worry about it.”

            She grabs his hand and laces their fingers. He smiles.

            He doesn’t have time to stop by his flat before work but Rose walks him to the shop, giving him another hug and a peck on the cheek before going.

            “Have a good day at work,” she says.

            “Have a good Sunday. Talk to you later?”

            “Yeah.”

            When he walks in Donna quirks an eyebrow.

            “All sorted?”

            “All sorted.”

\---

            “Not that I want to upset things, but are we going to talk about it?” He glances down at his work. He has no interest in this assignment, but he remains at his desk. He’ll need to finish it after he talks to Rose.

            “ _I dunno. Do you want to?_ ”

            “If you do.”

            “ _That’s not an answer._ ”

            “I want what you want. If you wanna talk about it, then I will. If you don’t, I’m more than happy to move on.”

            She doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

            “ _You remember things._ ”

            “I do.”

            “ _And you brought my brother hot chocolate. And you met my mum. And you’re good with Tony._ ”

            He shrugs even though she can’t see him.

            “ _But you don’t do domestics, you’ve said—_ ”

            “Yeah, but. It’s you.”

            Pause.

            “Do you—do you still want to go this weekend?” he asks quietly.

            “ _Of course. Do you?_ ”

            “Of course,” he echoes. “I just want to make sure you do. I don’t want you to feel—”

            “ _I guess I just want to know where I stand._ ”

            “Where you stand?”

            “ _With you._ ”

            “You’re—you’re Rose.”

            “ _I know._ ” She sounds a touch exasperated.

            “I just—you’re Rose, my—”

            He struggles.

            “ _Exactly._ ”

            He sighs.

            “You’re my best friend,” he tells her. “And I—”

            He pauses.

            “ _You’re becoming my best friend, too. I mean, sure, there’s Shireen, there’s Mickey, but—I don’t talk to them near as much as you._ ”

            “Do you want—do you wish we spoke less?”

            “ _No. Do you?_ ”

            “No.” He fiddles with his pen. “I see you everyday—near everyday—and still miss you, sometimes. Whenever anything happens, something I learn in my class—you’re the person I want to tell. I like seeing you smile. I know I’m not—I don’t talk about my past often but—but if I did—when I do—it’s you.” He shrugs. “That’s where you stand, Rose Tyler.”

            _Is it enough?_

            “ _I sort of wish we were having this conversation in person._ ”

            “Why’s that?”

            “ _So I could hug you._ ”

            He smiles.

            “Are we—”

            He hears her sigh. “ _Yeah. I just get scared, sometimes. I don’t wanna lose you._ ”

            “I understand,” he says. He looks at the lines on his skin. “I don’t wanna lose you, either.”

            “ _You won’t_.”

            “You don’t know that,” he mutters.

            “ _You’re stuck with me_ , _Doctor,_ ” she teases in an attempt to lighten the mood.

            There’s a number on his hip, marks covering his arms, alternate time streams, a year that never was, and yet—

            “Yeah?”

            “ _Yep._ ”

            He smiles.

            “I’m so glad I met you,” he mutters, and he’s surprised he’s actually said it, out loud. Sure, he’s thought it plenty, but actually saying it?

            “ _Me, too._ ”

            He smiles.

            He wishes she were here. Not even so they could talk, necessarily, just her presence—sitting on the couch as he does his work. Occasional smiles or comments. Just to be with her. He wishes—

            “ _I know you’ve got work to finish, so I’m gonna go and let you do that. I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor._ ”

            “See you tomorrow, Rose.”

            She doesn’t hang up, though.

            “Rose?”

            “ _My dad got my mum’s name wrong, when they got married. And Jimmy Stone could remember the lyrics to all these songs, but never my birthday._ ”

            And his heart twists for her because Rose Tyler deserves someone who will remember everything about her. She deserves someone who will care enough to make that effort, and most days he’s not even sure he’s good enough for her but he wants to be, she makes him better, she makes him—

            “Rose—”

            “ _See you tomorrow, Doctor._ ”

            She hangs up.

\---

            It never occurred to him that Rose would tell her friends about their trip to Scotland, but it makes sense. He told Donna, after all.

            Still, he can’t help the blush that breaks out when Jack hands him a box of condoms during the pub quiz Thursday night. Fortunately Rose is in the bathroom when this happens. Jake snorts his beer and Mickey makes a face.

            “That’s disgusting, Jack, now I’m gonna have that image in my head all night.”

            John blushes. Jack winks.

            “What’s gonna be in your head all night?” Rose asks, squeezing in next to John and stealing a sip of his beer. He all but chucks the box at Jack.

            Jack opens his mouth but John cuts him off.

            “This song! Isn’t it catchy?” John exclaims. Rose is looking at him like he’s gone mad and why is it suddenly so warm? He finishes off his beer.

            “Excuse me, I’m gonna—”

            “I’ll get it,” Rose says, leaving once more. Jake is chuckling and Jack looks smug. Mickey seems uninterested. John hates them all.

            As they’re leaving later that night, Jack says, “Be _safe._ ” Jake chuckles again and Mickey hits him. Rose looks confused.

            “What’s all that about?”

            “Nothing,” John says, pulling her away. “Nothing at all.”

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. Knocks the sharpie to the floor as he fumbles for the clock. Marks his arm and gets ready for work.

            He’s not nervous. Not at all. Why would he be nervous?

            Donna shoots him a grin that’s far too similar to Jack’s when he gets to the shop. He glares in response.

            Rose comes in wearing a pink dress, and she’s taken to wearing dresses this summer but he hasn’t seen this one before and it makes his heart beat a little faster. She’s always beautiful but—

            “Hello,” she greets with a smile.

            “Morning,” he returns. He’s already handed off her cup to Donna. He wrote her name in cursive today and drew two stick figure people in a car beneath it. He’s rather proud of his drawing.

            “What time are you coming by, again?” Rose asks, handing him her card.

            “Around 2, if that’s okay.”

            He swipes her card and hands it back.

            “Yeah. I’m getting off work at noon, so. I’ll be ready.”

            “Brilliant.”

            She smiles.

            “I’m looking forward to this.”

            “Me, too.”

            Donna hands Rose her coffee.

            “See you later, then,” Rose says.

            “Yeah, see ya.”

            She’s nearly to the door when—

            “Rose?”

            “Yeah?”

            He almost loses his nerve but she’s smiling at him and he smiles softly at her in response. “You look nice today.”

            She grins that tongue touched grin he loves. “Thanks.”

            Donna rolls her eyes at him.

            “If you’ve not kissed her by the end of this weekend—”

            “I’m working on it!”

            “Work harder!”

\---

            Normally he works until 2, but Martha—who owes him—agreed to come in early and cover for him.

            It’s a six hour drive on a good day, and yes, that’s rather long, but he’s hoping it’ll be all right. He told Rose to bring along CDs but he’s hoping they’ll talk as well.

            And it’s a big step, isn’t it? Weekend trip. Not only that, not only the logistics, but just—just being around Rose, practically non-stop for more than 24 hours. And he’s looking forward to it, of course he is—this is everything he wants—and yet he’s concerned because what if she—it’s not like she can just go back to her flat if she gets tired of him, hang up if they get into an argument. It’s the two of them, together, for an extended period of time. No one else, just them.

            His insides are twisting in anticipation.

            He picks up the rental car—an old blue thing that he’s hoping runs better than it looks (this is what he gets for looking for a bargain, he supposes). He shows his own bag in the back and then drives— _drives_ —to pick up Rose.

            “Hello,” she greets when he gets to her flat.

            “Hi. Ready to go?”

            She nods and grabs an overnight bag—that he insists on carrying, of course—and locks the door.

            This is it. This is happening.

            God help him.

\---

            Rose Tyler is wearing sunglasses.

            It shouldn’t surprise him, or should it be as big a deal as it is, but she’s wearing a pretty dress and sunglasses and he’s never seen her wear sunglasses before, and she’s sitting in the passenger seat of this car he rented and the sun through the window and the summer air and he needs to keep his eyes on the road but Rose is beautiful. And she’s _here_.

            He keeps both hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but every so often his gaze will drift to Rose. Once she catches him and grins, and he hopes he’s not blushing.

            “So, what’s the plan?”

            “Well. There’s not really a _plan_ —”

            “Come on, Doctor, I know you better than that.”

            He smiles.

            “Figured we could stop along the way for dinner. We’ll get in a bit late, so check in, get settled, and then head out to see the stars. Sound good?”

            “Yeah.” She looks at him. “How long were you planning this?”

            He shrugs. “Couple weeks.”

            “Really?”

            He looks at her this time. “Why’s that so surprising?”

            “Just is.”

            “I know I go on about my classes and stars are everything, and I want to—I want to do more than just _tell_ you these things, I want be able to show you, too, and it’s an adventure, and why wouldn’t I—”

            He’s getting a bit worked up but Rose touches his arm and he begins to come back down.

            “I’m glad you are. It’s sweet,” she says with a soft smile. She removes her hand and he takes one of his off the steering wheel, laces their fingers. Fuck it. He could lose this tomorrow.

            _Please let me not._

            He’s not prayed since primary school but, as he drives across England with Rose Tyler, he’ll pray to whatever gods will let him keep this.

            They hold hands all the way to the border.

\---

            “Hungry?”

            “Yeah. Know a place?”

            He does. It’s just a little cafe, sandwiches and soups and crisps. They stop and get a small table inside by the window, and he’s sure anyone who sees them assumes they’re a couple. He likes that.

            He insists on paying, and it feels like a date, like a proper date, and he’s happy. He’s always happy around Rose, but now especially. Travelling with Rose, having her hand to hold, making her laugh, being with her. As they sit with their food he can’t remember what he was so nervous about.

            “Mum never much wanted to travel,” she tells him as they walk back to the car.

            “No?”

            She shakes her head. “Always thought it’d be this hassle. Said my dad, though. He was always going off on adventures, always wanting to go places.”

            “And you?”

            “I always wanted to. Just hard, you know? Work and family and just—always a reason not to.”

            He nods. They get back into the car, and she takes his hand once they’re on the road.

            “What about you, Doctor? Seem like a seasoned traveler to me.”

            “Yeah, I—where I was from, people tended not to—in Gallifrey you tended to stay in Gallifrey. Work in the factory. Life revolved around time, in a funny way. Made watches, we did, and sure there was school but it was all, always leading up to—that was your life. That’s what you were gonna do, something to do with the watches, with the clocks. But I never much—I left, soon as I could.”

            Rose squeezes his hand. He finds it’s easier to talk when he can’t see her eyes. He looks straight ahead.

            “Wandered around a bit. Started school.”

            “Did you ever go back?”

            “Yeah.”

            He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to think about it, he went back and it was—and it—

            And maybe one day he’ll tell Rose, but tonight he wants to hold her hand and look at the stars and think about the future.

            She seems to understand, and changes the topic. Starts telling him about Shireen’s new boyfriend, how they met. He’s mostly listening, but every so often his attention will drift and he’ll think about how much he wants to do this with Rose in the future. Rent a car and drive somewhere, just go, just them.

            The farther they get from home the more he has the ridiculous urge to ask her to run away with him. He won’t. He can’t.

            He wonders if she’d say yes.

            (When she smiles at him he thinks she would.)

\---

            “Hi, I’ve got a room, reservation under Smith?”

            He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder, and he’s holding her bag in one hand and her hand in the other. The concierge—a bald man in a suit—looks like he hates his job and, by association, them. Rose is practically bouncing with energy beside him, though, and it’s infectious, and he can’t stop smiling.

            The man hands him a room key. “210.”

            “Thanks.”

            Rose takes the key—an old, proper key, and leads him down the hall, to the stairs. It’s an old converted estate—no elevators, mostly original interior, and so on. It’s nice, if a bit dark. He doesn’t mind. From the smile on Rose’s face, she doesn’t, either.

            He has a brief moment of panic as she opens the door to the room—what if they’ve mucked up the reservation and there’s only one bed? Fortunately (or not so fortunately) there are indeed two beds, as he’d requested. Rose lets go of his hand and jumps onto one of them, and he sets the bags down and goes to sit on the other bed.

            “What d’you think?” he asks.

            “It’s great!”

            He grins.

            “Bloke at the front desk doesn’t seem too cheerful, though.”

            “No.”

            “Bet you five quid I can get him to smile before we go.”

            “I couldn’t—”

            “Ten?”

            “Deal.”

            She’s grinning that tongue touched grin and they’re in Scotland and they’re alone and they’re together and there are so many ways this trip could go running through his head and he hopes they don’t show on his face because at least 90% of them are not on the table as real options or things he can suggest—or he could but that’s—

            “Doctor?”

            “Hmm?”

            “I just asked what time we were gonna go.”

            Right. He should pay attention.

            “Um—whenever you’d like,” he says. She nods and then grabs her bag and begins to unpack. Hangs her dress for tomorrow in the closet, sets her pajamas on the dresser. He decides to unpack as well, and as they move around the room and each other he is again struck by how domestic this all is. And how much he doesn’t mind.

            “Well, let’s go then,” Rose says, taking his hand. He grabs the key and locks the door behind them, and then they’re off, back to the car. Rose bids the concierge a good night, brightly, and he just blinks, unaffected. John grins triumphantly at her and she hits him.

            “I’ve got time,” she reminds him.

            He nods and she sticks her tongue out at him and she really shouldn’t do that and he really needs to get a hold of himself.

            “Full moon,” she comments.

            “I hear there are werewolves in these parts,” he says with a grin. She rolls her eyes.

            He opens the car door for her and then they’re off.

 


	17. Chapter 17

            “And that there is Cassiopeia.”

            “Where, exactly?”

            John takes Rose’s hand and uses her finger to trace the outline.

            “There.”

            “Okay, I see it now.”

            He lets his hand drop, Rose’s with it; she keeps hold of his hand and they come to rest on her stomach.

            He’d contemplated bringing a telescope, but eventually decided against it. Just packed a blanket and some sweaters in case it got cool. It’s still rather warm, though; he’d rolled up the sleeves of his oxford on the drive over.

            They’re lying on their backs in a field. He’d put his arm around her initially, and now she’s using it as a pillow. He can’t see her face but he can feel her pressed up against him and maybe that’s better. Maybe it will stop him doing something stupid.

            Or maybe it’ll give him just enough courage to—

            “It’s gorgeous out here,” she says. He nods. “You’re right. Can’t see the stars like this in the city.”

            “When I first left, I’d travel around, spend my nights like this, looking at the stars. Used to want to travel in space, when I was a kid.”

            “Just space?”

            “What else?”

            She shrugs. “Always thought it’d be cool to travel in time.”

            “You’ve been hanging around Jack too much,” he says with a smile. “But yeah, it would be. Travels through time and space.”

            “You ever come here, in your travels?”

            “Not here, exactly. Around here.”

            She nods and they just lie there for a few moments. The moon is full and bright and the stars are sparkling and he can feel Rose breathing, pressed up against him, the cotton of her dress under his hand.

            “What’s this?” she asks. She lets go of his hand and begins to trace the lines on this arm. He forgot. It hadn’t occurred to him to cover them up or anything, but now she’s noticed and her fingers are trailing over his skin and she did this another time. Once. An alternate universe, a future he didn’t get to have. He tries not to think of that night often, but she noticed the marks then, too. Then she didn’t ask.

            “Nothing,” he says quietly.

            “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

            “I can’t tell you.”

            “Why not?” She sounds more curious than upset, which is good, he supposes.

            “Just—” He sighs. Shrugs. “I’m keeping track.”

            “Of what?”

            _Of you._

            “I just am.”

            Her fingers still over a set of five near his wrist.

            “How long?”

            “A long time.”

            “When do you stop?”

            _If only I knew._

            He shrugs.

            There was another night with Rose, not so different from this one, but so completely different at the same time, and she traced the lines on his arms then and asked him if he would regret this, in the morning.

            He regrets a lot of things, and he’s had some terrible mornings, but this thing with Rose?

            He doesn’t want to wake up and wish he’d done this differently.

            “Rose?”

            She looks up at him.

            “Yeah?”

            And she trusts him, and she’s here, and she makes him want to be better, makes him want things he’d given up wanting, given up hope of, and she’s looking at him now and his heart is pounding and he wonders if she can feel it, and she’s so close, and he—

            He kisses her.

            And it’s short, and chaste, and he pulls away because he’s about used up all the courage he has. The urge to run away and the urge to kiss her again are about equal and she hasn’t responded yet and the running thing seems a good idea at this moment and no, he’s read this wrong, he’s fucked up, it’s going to reset, he’s lost her, he’s losing her, she isn’t saying anything why isn’t she saying anything—he moves away and it _hurts,_ he feels stupid and God, there’s a whole night still, and the drive home, and _dinner_ , and—

            She sits up. Moves away. It’s like a punch to the gut. He sits up, too, scrubs a hand over his face.

            “Fuck.”

            He runs a hand through his hair. She’s looking at him now, and he needs to fix this, he needs to make it right again, he messed up, misread it.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. “I shouldn’t have—”

            She gets up then, starts walking away and fuck, no, she can’t, he ruined it, he thought—he thought she did, he thought she felt it, too but he was wrong and now she’s leaving and he’s scrambling to his feet and going after her because she needs to let him explain at least.

            “Rose—Rose, wait, please—”

            She doesn’t look back she just keeps going and it _hurts_.

            “Rose—”

            He grabs her hand and she turns to face him, pulling out of his grasp. His heart hurts or maybe it’s already broken and she looks upset and he did that, and he—

            “I’m sorry,” he says weakly.

            She shakes her head. He swallows.

            “I know I—and I’m sorry—”

            “Would you stop saying that?” she says suddenly.

            “What?”

            “Stop apologizing. God, I get it, you made a mistake, you regret it, let’s forget it ever happened, let’s go back to how it was—”

            What? No. No—Rose—

            He realizes then she’s not—she’s not running away from him, she thinks _he—_

            He rushes to explain. “That’s not—”

            “Take me back,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself. She won’t look at him. his heart sinks. No, she doesn’t understand, he _loves_ her, he—

            “Rose—”

            “Take me back,” she repeats.

            He runs a hand through his hair. He needs to explain.

            “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like—”

            “John.”

            It stings, hearing her call him that, still. He’s sure she did it on purpose and every part of him wants to just run, just go, shut down—this is why he doesn’t let people in, this is—

            But it’s _Rose_.

            And he doesn’t want to regret this in the morning.

            He looks down. Clenches and unclenches his fist.

            He’s already started it, he can’t back away now. He needs to _tell_ her and if she still—well, then he’ll just have to deal with it.

            “I don’t want to go back to how it was.”

            “What?” she asks, confused.

            “You said—you said stop apologizing. You said, ‘you regret it, let’s go back to how it was’ but I don’t, Rose, I don’t want to go back, I—”

            “What do you want, then?”

            “You! What did you think—what do you think I’ve been doing, why do you think I’ve—I’m not good at this and you—”

            “What was I supposed to think?” she exclaims. “You looked about ready to bolt!”

            “Because you didn’t do anything, you just—”

            “I was surprised!”

            He stops.

            “How could you possibly—how could you not know by now?”

            She softens. He takes a step closer. She lets him.

            “You never did anything,” she responds softly, moving towards him.

            He could kick himself. He needs to tell her, show her, reassure her that she is—that he—

            “Rose Tyler,” he starts, but she doesn’t let him finish, she grabs him by the tie and pulls him down for a kiss.

            He doesn’t respond right away but then he realizes that _she_ is kissing _him_ and he’s wrapping his arms around her, pulling her closer, and her hands are in his hair and, yes, _this_ is how—and how has he waited this long? And it’s wonderful and familiar and new and timelines are flashing through his mind but he’s _here_ , he’s here with her and she is kissing him and _finally_.

            She rests her hands at the back of his neck, playing with the hair there, and pulls back for air. He rests his forehead against hers and smiles. Her eyes are still closed and she’s smiling and God, she’s beautiful.

            “Hi.”           

            “Hi,” she replies, softly.

            “I’m sorry for not being clearer.”

            “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

            “I’m not very good at this,” he admits, dropping his eyes. She kisses him again, all the leftover tension flooding out of him.

            “You’re doing just fine,” she reassures him. 

            He smiles.

            “Besides, not like I’m much better,” she says.

            “We can work on it,” he says with a grin.

            “Together?”

            “Together.”

            And she’s smiling so sweetly at him and her fingers are playing with the hair at the back of his neck and two minutes ago he felt like dying but he’s never been happier than he is in this moment. He leans in and kisses her because he _can_ , smiling as he does.

            After they break apart he pulls her in for a hug. She buries her face in his shoulder and he can feel her breath through his shirt and he can smell her shampoo and he doesn’t want to let her go, and he prays again to God or the universe or whatever to please, _please_ let him keep this. _Please don’t send me back now_. 

            He presses a kiss to the side of her head.

            He used to wish he had two hearts—one for normal functions and one for Rose. Now he’s pretty sure they’d both be hers.

\---

            The beds are mocking him.

            They get back to the inn and head up to the room and he opens the door and two beds. Because he’s a gentleman and he won’t pressure her and he won’t—

            But it’s not even about sex. A little bit yes, but also he just—now that it’s out there, now that they’ve opened up and taken their relationship to the next level, he just—he wants to fall asleep next to her and wake up with her and know she’s still here. But he can’t ask her, she’ll think—

            “What’s wrong?” she asks. She’s sitting on her bed and looking at him, concerned, and he closes the door.

            “Nothing,” he says.

            “Doctor.”

            “I’m gonna go change.”

            He smiles and grabs his pajamas and locks himself in the bathroom.

            He’s a coward.

            He changes and considers scrubbing the marks off his arm but the universe might decide to punish him for it so he doesn’t.

            When he comes back into the room Rose moves past him and into the bathroom without a word. Fuck. He’s messed it up again.

            He puts his clothes away and sits on his bed and waits for her.

            She comes back into the room and goes to put her dress away.

            “Rose?”

            “Yeah?”

            He gets up and hugs her. She relaxes a little. He’s still tense.

            “You wanna tell me what’s wrong now?” she asks.

            “Yeah,” he mumbles. They go and sit on the edge of his bed. He plays with her fingers and avoids her eyes.

            “What is it?”

            “I don’t—I didn’t—” he pauses. “I don’t want you to think that this was some—some elaborate plan to get you to—I didn’t bring you here to sleep with you and I won’t want you to think that that’s what this is because—”

            “I know, Doctor,” she says. “I didn’t think that.”

            He nods.

            “Separate beds, yeah?”

            “I want to sleep with you,” he blurts.

            Wait. No.

            She raises an eyebrow.

            “I mean—not like—I mean, yes, but not—not tonight, not like that, what I meant was—I want to—in the same bed but not—not _that_ , just—”

            He’s sure he’s bright red, and he averts his eyes. Rose chuckles and kisses him on the cheek.            

            “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

            He bristles. “That’s—”

            She kisses him.

            “I wanna sleep with you, too,” she says with a wink, and she’s teasing him but she’s also agreeing and he smiles and his cheeks are still warm. “Come on.”

            It’s a small bed, which is fine with him, honestly, and they get under the covers and he turns out the lights and gives her a kiss.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler.”

            “Good night, Doctor.”

            It’s not the first time he’s shared a bed with Rose, and hopefully it won’t be the last, either. He pulls her closer and she wraps an arm around him and he listens as her breathing evens out and she drifts off to sleep. He kisses her on the forehead.

            He falls asleep.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a stage managing job today that I'm gonna get paid for, which brings me joy. So have the next chapter. Enjoy. XD

            He wakes up wincing. It’s way too bright, why didn’t they close the curtains?

            He blinks a few times, adjusts to the light.

            There are legs tangled with his, and a body under his arm, and his eyes come into focus on Rose, still asleep, inches away.

            He sighs in relief.

            Part of him wants to get up and shut the damn curtains. Part of him never wants to move. The curtains remain as they are.

            Rose begins to wake up and he smiles.

            “Hi,” she says, voice thick with sleep.

            “Hi.”

            She smiles sleepily and it’s a new smile, one he’s not seen before. His heart warms.

            “What time is it?”

            “Dunno.”

            It occurs to him then that he’s never woken up with Rose Tyler. Not like this. On his couch that once but that was—that was ruined by Jackie. (There’s no way it could’ve been intentional but with Jackie you can never be sure.)

            “Dinner’s at 6, and we can’t be late.”

            “I know.”

            She goes to get up and he pulls her back.

            “In a minute. Let’s stay here a bit longer,” he says. She smiles.

            “My mum would kill you, you know, if we were late.”

            “Oh, I have no doubt.”

            She brushes his hair off his forehead, trails her hand down the side of his face.

            “We have to get up now. We can do this another day.”

            She gets out of bed and he doesn’t stop her. He watches as she grabs her things and heads to the bathroom.

            “Promise?” he asks.

            She comes back to the bed, leans over and gives him a kiss.

            “Promise.”

\---

            After Rose gets ready it’s his turn. She gives him a quick kiss and says she’s going to go look for coffee and he loves— _loves—_ that kissing is a thing they do now.

            Before, he alternated between not thinking about a future relationship with Rose to dwelling on it, but for some reason he never quite contemplated the transition from what they were to what they are now. He probably would’ve assumed it to be filled with some awkwardness, at least (he’s involved, after all) but so far it’s been—easy. Well, maybe not easy, but natural.

            He stares at the marks on his arms, the number on his hip. He doesn’t wash them off. He doesn’t add a new one, either. Maybe when he gets home.

            Rose is sitting on the bed with a coffee in one hand and a book in the other when he gets out. He smiles.

            “Got you a muffin, too,” she says.

            “What kind?” he asks.

            “Banana nut,” she replies, smiling. “I remember things, too.”

            He grabs the coffee and muffin she left for him on the dresser and joins her on the bed.

            “What are you reading?” he asks as she scoots over to make room for him.

            She shows him the front cover. _London Bridges._

            “It’s the next one, after _The Big Bad Wolf_ ,” she explains. He nods.

            “What time is it?”

            “10:30. Oh, I almost got him to smile.”

            “Almosts don’t count.”

            “I’m just saying. I’m gonna win.”

            “We’ll see.”

            She’s grinning at him and they’re together, properly, now, so he kisses her because he can.

            They’ve not snogged yet, not really—chaste, sweet kisses only—and that’s fine, that’s great, he’d be content with that, honestly, but—

            “We should go soon,” she says.

            Jackie. She would be the thing standing in the way of him snogging Rose Tyler.

            “Right, yeah.”

            They gather their things and she takes his hand and they head to the front desk.

            The bald man in the suit is still there, still grumpy. Rose chats with him, flirts a bit, but the man is unmoved. John nudges her side and she hits his chest and he’s aware of the fact that they’re grinning like idiots but he really doesn’t care.            

            John signs the receipt the man hands him and grabs Rose’s hand again to go.

            “Well, don’t let the werewolves get you,” Rose tells him as they leave.

            “Oh, I think I’ll be all right.”

            And the man smiles—actually _smiles_. It’s a creepy smile but a smile all the same. John groans in defeat as they walk to the car.

            “Ha!” she says, positively smug.

            “Yeah, yeah, you won.”

            “You bet I did.”

             He opens her door and puts the bags in the car before getting in himself.

            “Ready to go?” he asks. She pulls him in for a quick kiss.

            “Yep.”

            Her tongue’s poking out between her teeth as she smiles and so help him—

            Jackie is waiting for them.

            He bites back a groan and starts the car.

\---

            “So, are you gonna tell your parents?”

            “About what?” she asks innocently.

            “About—this.”

            “The trip?”

            Her eyes are sparkling. She’s going to make him say it.

            “About—us.”

            “What about us, Doctor?”

            He shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “You know, that we’re—together.”

            He glances over at her and she’s smiling.

            “Do you want me to?” she asks.

            “If you want to tell them, sure. I was just wondering.”

            “I dunno. It’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”

            There’s a bit of a sting at that. Soon or not he’s—they’re—if this is surprising to anyone—and he’s not going anywhere, so why—

            He pushes it down.

            “Right. Yeah.”

            “Doctor?”

            “Yeah?”

            “What’s going on?” she asks.

            “Nothing.” He sighs. Communication is important, he’s learning. “I guess I’m just wondering why you don’t want to tell them.”

            “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just figured you wouldn’t want them to know yet.”

            “It’s your family, they’re important to you, if you want them to know then yes, you should tell them, don’t worry about me.”

            “And what will I say? That you’re my boyfriend?”

            He can’t help the wince there.

            “Isn’t there another word?” he asks. “Boyfriend just seems so—I dunno.”

            “What else is there?”

            He shrugs. “Companion?”

            She snorts. “Hello, this is the Doctor, my companion.”

            “Okay, so, maybe not a great substitute,” he admits.

            “I could say that you’re my gentleman caller,” she teases. “Beau? Paramour? Suitor?”

            “Stop it,” he says but he’s grinning. “Lover?”

            She laughs. Quite a bit, actually.

            “I feel like I should be insulted, maybe.”

            “I’m not calling you my lover. _Especially_ not to my mum.”

            “Point taken. But I’ll have you know, I’m—”

            He’s going to stop talking. He’s not sure what made him think that sentence was a good idea. Is he blushing? Probably.

            “Is that so?”

            He bristles. “What are you implying? I’m very—”

            “I’m sure you are, but I’ve not seen any of your moves yet, have I?”

            This is _not_ how he imagined this conversation going and he half wants to change the subject and half wants to pull over and find out exactly what Rose Tyler’s tongue feels like against his.

            “Just you wait,” he says, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road and _not_ on Rose because he cannot stop this car or make them late because Jackie _will_ probably kill him if that happens.

            “I will,” she responds, and he can tell she’s smiling, and it’s probably a bit mischievous, too, and he won’t look, he will keep his eyes on the road like a responsible driver.

            His insides are twisting in anticipation.

\---

            They stop at a little shop for chips. He insists on paying and she kisses him and reminds him that he still owes her ten quid. He kisses her and asks if he can take her out on Friday instead and she says okay and they’re _that_ couple aren’t they, that annoyingly sweet, touchy-feely couple that you want to tell to get a room.

            If only.

\---

            “Should we stop and pick something up? Flowers—cake—something your mother likes?”

            “We’ll be fine.”

            “Should we have gotten souvenirs?”

            “Why are you so nervous about this?”

            “Because she doesn’t like me and we’re together now and—”

            “It’s not that she doesn’t like you,” Rose says. “It’s just—she doesn’t want me getting hurt.”

            “I’m not going to hurt you.”

            “I know. But until yesterday we hadn’t even—we’re barely putting a label on it now, after all these months and—”

            “And I’m sorry but I told you—”

            “I’m not attacking—I’m just saying. She’s my mum, she worries about me. I’ve told her she doesn’t need to, that you’re a great bloke, but still.”

            A question about Jimmy Stone is on the tip of his tongue but he forces it back. He won’t do this today. Not when they’re twenty minutes from her mother’s. Not when they’ve just—

            “You talk about me often, then, with your mum?” he asks instead, grinning.

            She rolls her eyes. “Like you don’t talk about me to Donna.”

            Touché.

            “So, just to be clear: we’re not getting cake?”

            “Do you really want to?”

            He shrugs.

            “If it’ll make you feel better.”

\---

            He doesn’t buy a cake. He buys jam.

            “Everyone loves jam, Rose,” he explains.

            He may or may not pick up a jar for himself as well. Rose rolls her eyes at him fondly.

\---

            They walk to the door hand in hand. He’s holding the bag of jam in his other hand, and he feels the ridiculous urge to straighten his tie or something.

            Before they go inside Rose stops and turns to him.

            “Relax,” she says. He nods and smiles. She kisses him and he pulls her closer and increases the pressure on her lips and is about to deepen it when he hears from inside—

            “Mum, there’s a car outside!”

            He jumps away. She giggles and reaches for his hand again.

            “Come on.”

            Tony greets them, hugging Rose _and_ John. He feels touched, he really does. Pete shakes his hand and Jackie accepts her jam with a thanks that’s more sincere than others he’s received from her. Pete seems quite excited about it, in any case.

            “So how was it?” Pete asks as they sit down to eat.

            “It was great,” Rose answers. She finds his hand under the table and squeezes it.

            “What did you do?” This from Jackie. She isn’t glaring at him, though, nor is her tone sharp. Progress?

            “Just a bit of stargazing,” John answers.

            “Do you have a telescope?” Tony asks.

            “I do, but I didn’t take it with me.”

            “Why not?”

            “Well, we weren’t looking for anything in particular. Usually only use the telescope when you want to see something close up. Details. This was more a big picture trip.”

            “And will there be other trips, Doctor?” Jackie asks.

            He meets her gaze. She’s asking more than that, though. He can tell. She’s asking his intentions. She’s asking if he’s sticking around. She’s asking if he’ll be coming to dinner, now, with Rose. She’s asking—

            “Yeah. There will be.”

            Jackie smiles.

            “Hope you like shepherd’s pie,” she says.

            “Mum’s shepherd’s pie is the _best_ shepherd’s pie,” Tony says.

            “Is it? Brilliant.”

            Rose squeezes his hand and he turns to her and smiles.

\---

            “See you next week!” Tony calls, standing at the door with Jackie and Pete as Rose and John leave.

            “See you next week, Tony!” Rose replies.

            “Bye,” John says. Then he takes Rose’s hand and they walk the rest of the way to the car.

            They didn’t tell her family they’re together. Officially. But Jackie knows, and they held hands all night, so basically it’s just the words they didn’t say.

            He drives her home and walks her up to her flat and carries her bag for her and she calls him her beau before kissing him when they reach her door.

            “I had a nice time,” she says.

            “Just nice?” he teases.

            “Shut up.” She smiles. “Feels like you’re dropping me off after our first date.”

            “Nah. This wasn’t our first date.”

            “No? Then what was?”

            “End of the World. We had chips,” he replies with a grin.

            Her smile changes into something much more tender. His heart twists.

            “Way back then?”

            He knows what she’s asking.

            “Why do you think I went over to talk to you in the first place?” he asks, looking at his trainers, suddenly shy.

            She hugs him then, and it’s strange to be having this conversation in the hallway of her building, but he hugs her back because he knows she didn’t, then, not yet. It’s different for her. But they’re here now. Together.

            “I’ll see you later,” she says, pulling away.

            “Good night,” he tells her.

            “Good night.”

            He kisses her again before she goes inside, soft and slow. He doesn’t want to leave yet.

            She doesn’t invite him in, which is just as well. He has work in the morning, and it’s still—it’s early yet.

            He drives to his flat. Marks the days off the calendar. Marks his arm.

            He falls asleep.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. Sits up, glances at the wall. The calendar is still there. He breathes.

            As he brushes his teeth he wonders how long this will go on, if there will be any way of telling if it’s stopped.

            If it will ever stop.

            He wonders if Rose will come by the shop today. It’s Sunday, but—

            He decides that he’ll go by and see her, if she doesn’t. now that they’ve—now that they’re—he’s on edge, now, more than before, but there’s so much to—it can’t—

            He needs to see her today, he decides. To make sure she’s still here.

            He goes to work.

\---

            “So.”

            “So.”

            Donna’s scrutinizing him, as if she expects the details of the weekend to be written on his face. He pours himself a coffee.

            “So, how was it?”

            He’s a terrible person, clearly, because he wants to say nothing for as long as possible just to torture Donna. Who has done nothing but support him and root for him.

            He shrugs. “It was all right.”

            She hits him.

            “What?”

            “What happened?”

            “What makes you think something happened?”

            She just gives him this look.

            “I’m not blind.”

            “Am I glowing?”

            “Should you be?”

            “No!”

            “Doctor!”

            The bell above the door jingles.

            “I have to help the customer,” he says with a cheeky grin, turning around.

            Rose. His smile widens.

            “Hi,” he says.

            “Hi,” she responds. He can _feel_ Donna rolling her eyes at them. “Decided to come in today.”

            “Miss me already?”

            She grabs his tie and pulls him in for a kiss.

            He hopes this becomes a regular thing she does. And for a moment forgets that they’re in public.

            Until someone clears their throat and they break apart and there’s another customer behind Rose, and he blushes and Rose looks sheepish and Donna hands Rose her coffee and hits him upside the head.

            Rose smiles at him and goes to sit in her chair by the window and the woman in line behind Rose does not look amused and tells him as much, and he apologizes and gives her a discount. When she’s gone, huffing, Donna corners him.

            “ _All right?_ ”

            He shrugs. “Well, it was.”

            “You finally did it—or did she make the first move because you’re—”

            “No! I did, I—we—we’re together, now. Officially.”

            Donna smiles, then, and gives him a hug, and he looks over and sees Rose watching them, grinning. He grins back.

            “About bloody time,” Donna says.

            Indeed.

\---

            Rose sits and reads for the rest of his shift. He joins her during his break and they make plans to get dinner and return the rental car and when he hangs up his apron she meets him by the counter and they leave hand in hand.

            “Thanks for coming by today,” he says.

            “Wanted to see you,” she replies.

            “Wanted to see you, too.”

            The words are at the tip of his tongue. He can’t. It’s too soon.

            “Is this going to become a regular thing? You coming in on Sundays?”

            She shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe. But I might still—you know. Spend time with Shireen or Mickey or Jack. Go visit my dad.”

            He nods. “I’m not saying—I mean, I like seeing you at the shop. But even if you don’t come in, we can still—”

            “I know.”

            They pick up the car and return it and get food and take it back to his place. She curls up next to him on the couch and they watch TV and eat Chinese, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her.

            He walks her back to her flat (“You don’t have to.”) (“I insist.) (“I’ll be all right on my own, Doctor.”) (“Please? I just want to make sure you get there safely.”) and kisses her for quite some time in the hallway and when they finally break apart her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen and she looks thoroughly kissed and it thrills him.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler,” he says.

            “Good night, Doctor. See you tomorrow.”

            “Promise?”

            She smiles softly as she closes the door. “Promise.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

_say it. say the words I see behind your eyes. if it’s not hard to say then it’s a lie_

-

            They fall into a routine. A new new routine. They still see each other near every day at the shop, but instead of talking on the phone every night (which they often still do) they’ll meet up for dinner. Sometimes it’s take out. Sometimes one of them will cook. It alternates between his flat and hers. August fades into September and classes start again and Rose will come by and sit with him while he does his work, watching telly or reading or even baking, sometimes, while he does his reading and his problem sets.

            Sometimes she stays over, but he has yet to spend the night at her flat. The farthest they’ve gotten are a few heated snogs on the couch, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t want more but he won’t rush things. Their relationship may not be new but _this_ is, and he can be patient. He’s not, generally, a patient man, but for Rose he will be.

            And regardless of how far they’ve gone, he loves this. He loves showing up at her door with take out, being greeted with a kiss, sitting on the couch watching a film, working at his desk or tinkering with something for class while Rose sits a few feet away chatting with him or reading, waking up with her, sometimes, falling asleep next to her, seeing her trainers next to his by the door, her keys and jacket on the table.

            Before, he’d always held back a little when it came to being affectionate with Rose. Not a lot—he’d held her hand, and would hug her sometimes—but she was by far the more touchy of the two of them. He used to restrain himself because he knew, even then, that a certain point he would just kiss her and there would be no going back. Looking back now, he should’ve just let it happen rather than waste all that time.

            Now he lets himself touch her in all the little ways he hadn’t before. He rests his hand on the small of her back as they walk into and out of doors. He still holds he hand and hugs her, but he does so much more freely. He puts his arm around her when they sit on the couch, traces circles on her arm, rests his hand on her as they move around each other in the kitchen.

            Essentially, he spent months not touching Rose Tyler, and now it seems he can’t stop.

            She doesn’t seem to mind.

\---

            He wakes up to his phone ringing. According to his alarm clock it’s 2:30 am. He’s too groggy to be alarmed as he answers.

            “Hello?”

            “ _Hey._ ”

            He sits up suddenly.

            “Rose?”

            She sounds like she’s been crying. She sniffles.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “ _I, um, I had a nightmare. It feels so stupid, now, calling you so late, I shouldn’t—_ ”

            “No, I’m glad you—are you all right? Stupid question, sorry, is—is there anything I can do?” he asks, getting out of bed and slipping his trainers on.

            “ _I dunno, I just—_ ” She pauses. “ _Can you come over_?” she asks quietly. “ _I know it’s late and it’s—you don’t have to, really, don’t feel like—_ ”

            He grabs his coat and his keys.

            “I’m on my way. I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?”

            “ _Yeah?_ ”

            “Of course. Rose—”

            _Say it_.

            “I’ll see you soon.”

            They hang up.

            _Coward._

\---

            It’s usually a 15-20 minute walk from his flat to Rose’s. He gets there in 10 minutes. When Rose answers the door he doesn’t even let her say anything before he pulls her into his arms. She grips him back tightly.

            “Thank you,” she murmurs into his chest.

            “Of course,” he replies.

            They stand there for a few more moments before she lets go, grabs his hand, and leads him inside.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. She shrugs.

            “I dunno, I just—” She pauses. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

            “I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures her. She nods. “Do you want to—are you tired? Do you want to go to sleep?”

            She nods.

            She leads him to her room and it’s not the first time he’s been here, but it is in this time stream. He toes off his trainers and takes off his coat. Rose is smiling slightly at him.

            “What?”

            “You came here in your jimjams?”

            “Yes.”

            He must’ve looked ridiculous.

            “You were upset,” he explains. She walks toward him slowly. Reaches up on her toes and kisses him, soft and tender.

            _Say it_.

            He doesn’t. He climbs into bed with her, arms around each other as they lie on their sides, facing each other.

            “He was alone,” she says. “Didn’t matter that he had mum, and me. He was alone when he died. Middle of the street. Driver didn’t even stop.”

            “ _Rose._ ”

            “I’m afraid that’s going to happen to me.”

            “It won’t.”

            There’s a lump in his throat and he tries to swallow it down but it’s stuck there.

            “It won’t,” he repeats, like maybe if he says it forcefully enough it will be true. Like maybe he’s reassuring the both of them.

            He reaches up and cups her cheek.

            “I—”

            _Say it._

            “I’m not going anywhere.”

            _Coward._

            She smiles. There’s a tinge of sadness to it that he wants to make disappear but he doesn’t know how. Not when his own heart is twisting like it is.

            “Good night,” she says.

            “Good night, Rose Tyler.”

            He kisses her on the forehead and she scoots closer to him and he wants this, every day, always.

            He wants to say it but every time his throat closes up and he panics and _too soon_ and fear and _what if_ and—

            He falls asleep.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm.

            Except, wait. That’s not _his_ alarm.

            Rose rolls away from him and shuts it off, then turns back to him.

            “Morning,” she says.

            He smiles. He can’t help it. He’s here, with Rose, in her bed, waking up with her. This hasn’t ever happened here. It’s new and it’s lovely and there are no bags under her eyes even though it was one of those nights so he kisses her, happy and grateful and so in love with her, pinning her underneath him.

            “Where did that come from?” she asks when he pulls back, her face flushed, grinning.

            “I like this. Being with you,” he replies.

            “Me, too.”

            He grins again, goes in for another kiss.

            He spent _months_ thinking about Rose Tyler’s tongue. _Months_. Sometimes he can barely believe that this is his life now, being with Rose, waking up with Rose, kissing Rose, Rose’s tongue against his. Other times he can’t believe he waited so bloody long.

            Right now he’s not thinking about any of these things. Right now he’s just kissing Rose and her tongue is in his mouth and there’s far too much space between them still and—

            Her alarm clock is ringing. _Again._

            He groans and pulls away and she shuts it off.

            “Why do you have two alarms?”

            “So I don’t oversleep.”

            “Do you oversleep often?”

            “No, because I set two alarms.”

            She kisses him again.

            “You’re going to be late for work.”

            “Don’t care.”

            She giggles.

            “Doctor.”

            “Five more minutes?”

            He’s being childish, he knows. But she’s smiling and not moving so he might also be winning.

            “All right. Five minutes,” she says, snuggling into his side. He slides his arms around her. Traces circles on her arm. A language they made up as kids. Words she doesn’t understand that he can’t say.

            _Say it_.

            He’s happy. He’s content. He terrified of ruining it.

            They lie there together for a few minutes before getting up. He puts his trainers on, grabs his coat. She walks him to the door.

            “Thank you,” she says, hugging him before he goes.

            “Any time. Really,” he responds, giving her a quick kiss as they break apart.

            “See you later.”

            “Yeah. Rose?”

            She looks up at him. He—

            “I’m glad you called.” He smiles. “See you later.”

            _Coward_.

\---

            _Chips or Chinese?_

_Surprise me._

\---

            “Hey,” he says, giving her a kiss.

            “Hey.”

            He walks in, setting the bag of food on the coffee table and taking off his jacket. Rose closes the door behind him.

            “You went with Chinese?”

            “Yep. Chop sticks, Rose! Aren’t chopsticks brilliant? Bit hard with rice—which is funny because that’s the staple of Chinese food, isn’t it, but it’s what we struggle with the most—so I got forks as well and—”

            She cuts him off with a kiss.

            “Let’s just eat, yeah?” she says. He grins stupidly, as he often does when Rose interrupts him like this.

            So they sit on her couch and begin to eat, bickering about what to watch on telly. Finally they settle on a rerun of _The Office_.

            “So, how was work?” Rose asks.

            “It was all right. Got rather busy around lunch time. Donna’s away this week, off to meet Lee’s family, so I worked with Martha.”

            “That’s exciting for Donna.”

            “Yeah.”

            “And how’s Martha?”

            “She’s good. She and Rory have been studying quite a bit, exam coming up I guess. Did you know, the new girl at the shop, Amy, she’s dating Rory?”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, just found out today.”

            “I don’t think I’ve met either of them.”

            “No, but you’ve probably seen Rory, he’s usually in on weekends.”

            “One of your other regulars?”

            “Weekend regular. How was your day?”

            “Good. Bit boring. Had lunch with Mickey and Jake.”

            He nods.

            “Oh, I almost forgot. I, well, there’s this—this reception for the department. Stuffy thing, really, donors and visiting professors and a whole lot of—but it’s required, and there’ll be a dinner, but I was wondering if you’d like to come. With me.”

            “To this reception?”

            “Yeah. It’ll probably be boring, and it’s this formal thing, they’re making a big deal of course but Harriet threatened my head if I skipped out and I’m allowed to bring a date, so. Do you want to?”

            She shrugs. “Why not? Could be fun.”

            He grins. “Brilliant.”

            “When is it?”

            “Friday.”

            “Doctor! That’s in four days!”

            “I forgot!”

            She shakes her head.

            “I have to go find a tux, now.”

            “Suppose I’ll have to get a dress, then?”

            “Oh yes.”

            That’s really the only part of the whole thing he’s looking forward to, honestly.

            She smiles. “It’ll be like a proper date.”

            “Oi, are you saying I never take you out? Why, just last week we—”

            She kisses him again.

            “I’m saying it’ll be nice to get all dressed up and go out,” she clarifies. 

            “It will, won’t it?”

\---

            It’s a disaster.

            But that happens later.

\---

            It starts well, in any case.

            He rents the blue car again, because the event is at some hotel and he doesn’t want them to have to take the Tube in their fancy clothes. And he likes the blue car.

            So he drives to pick Rose up, pulling at his bow tie awkwardly, nervous for completely ridiculous reasons.

            Rose is gorgeous. Which isn’t surprising, exactly. He just forgets, sometimes, how beautiful she is, and then she’ll smile just so, or the light will hit her a certain way, or she’ll wear a new dress or a new top or something and it’s not a revelation but it makes his heart skip anyway, like when the sun comes out after it’s rained. It’s not that you forgot that the sun was wonderful, you’re just remembering how wonderful it is—appreciating it all over again.

            So Rose is beautiful in her dress and he tells her as much and she smiles at him and straightens his bow tie and tells him he looks handsome and he kisses her but only a peck because they have to be at this stupid event and Harriet will kill him if he’s late, so he takes Rose’s arm and leads her to the car and she comments that she likes this car and he wonders how much it would cost him to _buy_ the car. Use it to take Rose on dates and adventures and the future and possibilities are flashing through his mind and he pushes them back because they need to go.

            But he _wants_ —

            The drive is pleasant enough. He holds Rose’s hand and asks her about her day and she seems a bit distant but not enough for him to ask about it—whatever it is, it can’t be that big a deal, right?

            Wrong.

            He supposes it starts when they arrive. There’s a check-in (as if regular people are going to be crashing an astrophysics dinner), and they walk up to it, and he says,

            “I’m John Smith and this is Rose Tyler, my plus one.”

            Because they’d never quite figured out the labels thing and anyway, it’s true, she _is_ his plus one, but he can tell she’s upset by it but he doesn’t understand why it’s a big deal and he doesn’t have a chance to address it because of course there’s small talk to be had with a bunch of boring old scientists and donors who want you to prove to them that they should continue to give large sums of money for the new telescope you want.

            She stays by his side while he chats and he wants to tell the bloke he’s talking to to sod off so he can go find a quiet corner to talk to Rose about whatever’s bothering her but he can’t do that so he nods and listens and acts interested and squeezes Rose’s hand.

            She doesn’t squeeze back.

            He’s starting to get worked up into a proper panic it’s announced that everyone take their seats for dinner and he inwardly sighs and outwardly apologizes to the man he’s talking to before excusing them to find their seats.

            “Rose, what’s—”

            “Nothing.”

            Bullshit.

            “Rose—”

            “Just leave it, all right?”

            “Talk to me.”

            “You’re a bit busy. You have all of them to talk to.”

            “Rose—”

            “Not now.”

            They arrive at their table and he pulls out her chair for her and she gives him a tight smile and he’s still panicking but of course no one at their table knows what’s going on so conversation proceeds normally.

            It was crumbling during the cocktail hour but it’s dessert when it falls apart.

            “So, Rose, what do you do?”

            From a physicist at Oxford.

            For the record, he introduced her as his girlfriend to the table.

            “I work at Torchwood,” she says.

            “Brilliant firm.”

            From a man whose family has been donating to the space program since there _was_ a space program.

            “What do you do there?”

            From a mathematician at Cambridge.

            “Human Relations.”

            “Where did you go to school?”

            From the physicist.

            Rose hesitates.

            “Ah.”

            John wants to hit the man whose family is one of the main reasons he has instruments to research with.

            Also the physicist.

            In fact he hates all of the people at this table and the looks they’re giving Rose. He finds her hand under the table but she pulls it from his reach.

            _No, no—_

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” Harriet starts up on the stage, and Rose excuses herself and no one’s paying attention to them anymore because Harriet’s giving her speech now so he doesn’t bother saying anything to the table—all of whom can sod off—before chasing after her.

            He doesn’t want to bring attention to them, though, so he follows her out of the hotel (if Harriet gives him crap for leaving he’ll give it right back—he stayed for the whole fucking dinner, those people are the least of his concern right now) before stopping her.

            “Rose—”

            “Go back inside.”

            And God, she’s _crying_ —not sobbing but there are tears and what—

            “No, what’s—”

            “I’ll get a cab, it’s fine, it’s—”

            “Rose, talk to me, what’s—”

            “You should get back in there, they’ll wonder where you’ve gone, they—”

            “Fuck them! Rose, tell me what’s wrong,” he says, taking her hands. She pulls them from his grasp and there’s a tightening in his chest. “Please.”

            “I didn’t go to school, John.”

            And he fucking _hates_ when she does that, she always uses that name to push him away and he’s not standing for it anymore.

            “Rose—”

            “Shut up, I’m trying to tell you—”

            He stops. Waits for her to continue.

            “I didn’t go to university.”

            Does she really think that matters?

            “That’s not—okay, but why—”

            “I never even got my A-levels. I left school when I was 16, because of Jimmy Stone and—”

            And it all makes sense. It’s not that she didn’t go to university—that wouldn’t matter to him, she must know that—it’s _Jimmy._  

            “Of course.”

            Rose deflates—if possible—even more.

            “No, no, I didn’t mean that how it sounded, I—”

            She’s walking away.

            “Rose, wait, please will you _stop_.”

            She does.

            “Thank you.” He runs a hand through this hair. “What does all this—why is this all coming up now?”

            “You’re joking, right?” But nothing about this is funny. She laughs darkly and he hates the sound. “First, you didn’t even want to bring me here—”

            “That’s not true.”

            “It is! All week, oh it’s going to be so boring, you don’t have to come, don’t feel like you have to do this—you were practically begging me not to and I should have, I should’ve taken the out, I—”

            “That wasn’t—it is boring, _I_ didn’t even want to come and this is what I do, I didn’t want you to feel like I dragged you along—”

            “And then—‘my plus one’—”

            “You are!”

            “So that’s it, then? You can’t even bear the thought of calling me your girlfriend in front of your colleagues—”

            “I—at the table, I told them, what did I say? I said, ‘this is my girlfriend Rose,’ I—”

            “Because you knew I was upset!”

            “Of course I knew! Why does it matter why I said it as long as I said it?”

            “You didn’t _want_ to, that’s the point, and no wonder, why would you, brilliant scientist—”

            “Oi, that’s not—”

            “You are, though, aren’t you, you’re some kind of genius, there’s no other way you’d’ve been in a PhD program so young.”

            He sighs. She’s right, of course, but she’s also _wrong._

            “Why does that matter?”

            “Because,” she says, taking a step closer and straightening his bow tie, eyes glistening with tears, “I never went to university, for a boy—a stupid boy—and I work for my step-dad. And your life is this. Fancy events with doctors and scientists, important people who are doing important research. You should be with someone like that. Not me.”

            “Don’t. Don’t do that,” he says, and he might start crying. “Rose Tyler you are brilliant.”

            “Stop it,” she says, turning away. He grabs her arm and doesn’t let her pull away this time.

            “You are. Don’t even—you think I care about that? I don’t care what you do or where you went to school or what—I care about _you_. You could work in a shop for all I care—Henrik’s or a chippy—I work at a coffee shop, Rose, remember that, I—”

            “But that’s only temporary.”

            “I don’t care about any of it! Where you work or where I work or what—what those idiots think. I want you. And you are brilliant and I don’t know if it was Jimmy Stone who told you you weren’t or someone else but they were lying.”

            The tears are flowing steadily now and she’s not looking at him and his eyes are stinging, too.

            “Please believe me,” he says.

            “What happens when you finish? Finally get your degree, become a proper doctor. You’ll quit the shop, right? Move on.”

            “Rose—”

            “I can’t,” she says, turning away and she’s leaving, she’s walking and _oh God oh God_ this might be his last chance—

            “Rose Tyler—”

            She stops.

            “I love you.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

            She doesn’t move. She doesn’t turn. She doesn’t say anything.

            _Fuck_.

            His shoulders slump.

            He said it. He told her. He—

            She turns around. He sighs in relief. She’s not leaving anymore.

            “Rose?”

            He takes a step toward her. She doesn’t move away. These are good signs.

            “Please say something,” he says. Because he just gave her his heart and she still hasn’t said anything, hasn’t smiled, hasn’t given him any indication of what she’s thinking or feeling or—

            “Tell me you didn’t just say that to stop me leaving.”

            _What?_

            He can’t even respond right away—he opens and closes his mouth a few times, just—

            “How could you even think that?”

            “What am I supposed to think?” she asks. “You’ve never said it before, awfully convenient, isn’t it, that you’d happen to say it _now_ —”

            “It’s true! I love you, Rose Tyler, I’m _in_ love with you, I’ve been trying to tell you for— _weeks_ —I just—how can you—I know I’m bad at this but am I really that—”

            And he’s so _tired_ , he’s so—

            “You have no idea how much you mean to me—obviously, or we wouldn’t be doing this right now,” he says. He shakes his head, scrubs a hand over his face. “No idea.”

            He’s exhausted. He’s spent God knows how long loving Rose Tyler, waiting for Rose Tyler to notice him, talk to him, love him back, and now here he’s—and all she feels is doubt. She doesn’t even believe him. _Everything_ and still—

            “I’m sorry,” he says, and he will _not_ cry, _fuck_. “I’m sorry but I can’t—”

            He turns.

            He can’t do this. He feels—there’s a physical pain, in his chest, and he—

            “Wait—”

            She grabs his hand. Hugs him, burying her face in his chest, and he sighs in relief and _Rose_ and it’s like coming home, holding her like this.

            They stand like that for a few moments and she hasn’t said anything but she’s here, isn’t she? That has to count for something. So maybe—maybe she doesn’t love him. Maybe she—it’s still early, he’ll just—he’ll wait, he can wait for her, he can—

            She’s letting go and okay, he can do that, too. He feels tired and raw the way you do when you’ve just had a good long cry except he hasn’t had a good long cry and he can’t curl up and go to sleep now because they’re in front of a hotel and there’s still the drive home and the end of this conversation to get through but she’s looking at him and not crying and holding his hand and that has to mean something, right?

            She smiles softly at him, lets go of his hand to bring it up to his face. He leans into her touch.

            “I get scared sometimes,” she says. “A lot, actually. I know you—I know you care about me, of course I do. I just—I love you, Doctor. And I’ve been so afraid that you—I don’t know what to do with these feelings,” she admits. “And I didn’t know what I would do if it turned out you didn’t feel the same.”

            It’s like all the tension drains out of him.

            “But I do,” he says.

            “Yeah.”

            She kisses him, then, and he responds almost immediately, it’s like his nerves are on fire, everything is heightened and everything is _Rose_ and she _loves_ him and he may never let her go, and her fingers are in his hair and her tongue against his and it’s not sweet, it’s desperate, it’s a prayer, a thanksgiving, a reassurance.

            They break apart gasping and she’s _beautiful_ and—

            “Rose?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I love you.”

            And she kisses him again.

\---

            He does, incidentally, buy the blue car.

\---

            The first time they sleep together—and it does feel like the first time because that other time—that wasn’t—because he—and she—but _now_ —

            The first time it happens they’re at his flat, and it wasn’t planned so much as it just happened but it was still a culmination of everything; it wasn’t planned but it was by no means surprising. And it’s lovely and wonderful and they’ve shared his bed several times but never like this and his heart might burst from all he’s feeling. After, as they’re lying tangled up together, he stares at his calendar and feels her skin against his and there’s no going back now, he can’t, the universe can’t possibly, not now, and he holds her tighter and doesn’t let go and he tries to stay awake so he doesn’t have to wake up, so there’s no chance of losing everything, but he does fall asleep, and he wakes up to Rose Tyler’s lips on his and this is what happiness is, he realizes.

            It’s his favorite thing in the world, waking up with Rose, because it’s immediate assurance that everything is okay. When he wakes up to her kissing him or feeling her against him he knows, without having to look for his calendar, that she is still here. That he is still here.

\---

            Fall is a flurry of classes and customers and nights at the pub with Jack and Mickey and Shireen and Jake or Donna and Lee. Rose wears scarves and he likes Rose wearing scarves because it means he can leave hickeys on her neck and no one is the wiser.

            Some nights they spend at her flat and some nights at his but regardless they each start keeping clothes at the other’s. He clears space for her in his closet, a drawer in his dresser, and she puts away some of her summer dresses to make room for his oxfords.

            Jack teases them and winks and makes suggestive comments but John doesn’t blush anymore; usually he’ll just kiss Rose and she’ll roll her eyes and Jack will grin and Shireen doesn’t glare at him anymore which is nice.

            And Saturdays are still their day. They spend most nights together but Saturday is date night, and they’ll make sandwiches and get in the car and drive and explore. They go to the beach and the countryside. Sometimes they wander around; sometimes they stay in the car, driving all day, curled up together in the back seat in the middle of nowhere.

            He tells her he loves he because it’s true, because it makes her smile this one smile he loves, and she tells him she loves him and he grins stupidly because once he never could have imagined it and now he can’t imagine a universe where this wasn’t the case.

            She doesn’t call him her boyfriend and he doesn’t call her his girlfriend. They don’t have words for each other. They are the Doctor and Rose. And it’s enough.

\---

            “Mum asked if we could baby-sit Tony this weekend,” Rose says as they watch telly together one night.

            “We?”

            “She knows you’re always over.”

            He blushes. He’s not ashamed of his sex life with Rose but that doesn’t mean he wants her mother to know about it.

            “Yeah, let’s baby-sit Tony. It’ll be fun.”

            She smiles and kisses him and he may not like the term girlfriend but there are other words he likes. Words that it’s probably too soon for.

            Words he thinks of anyway as he falls asleep.

\---

            “So I’ll pick up Tony after work and then meet you back here,” Rose says, brushing her hair. He finishes tying his laces.

            “Yep. Want me to pick up pizza?”

            “That’d be great.”

            “Okay.”

            He grabs his coat and walks over to her. She kisses him and she’s still damp and warm from her shower and he smiles against her mouth.

            “Love you. See you at the shop,” he says as he pulls away.

            “Love you.”

\---

            Tony has no real concept of what it means that John and Rose are dating other than the fact that John is now around more and they hold hands and occasionally kiss (which makes Tony scrunch up his face in disgust). But he approves all the same, which is really the only thing that matters.

            “Can we go get ice cream?”

            “Well—”

            “No.”

            “But Rose—”

            “It’s late, you have to be in bed in half an hour.”

            “But—”

            “Maybe we can get some tomorrow,” John suggests, and Rose shoots him a look that tells him he should stop talking but of course Tony’s latched on to it.

            “So we can get some tomorrow, Rose?”

            “If you go to bed without a fuss,” she replies, and Tony beams.

            After Tony’s gone to sleep Rose corners him in the kitchen where he’s washing up.

            “Next time we should talk before you go suggesting things.”

            “I was just—”

            “I know, it’s fine, but I don’t want to be the bad guy here so we need to talk about these things.”

            “There wasn’t exactly time to talk—”

            “Doctor—” She takes the plate out of his hand and turns him to face her. “I’m not upset. But we’re a team, yeah? So I’m just telling you, for the future.”

            “Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            He kisses her.

            “Love you,” he says. She smiles.

            “Love you, too.”

            He finishes washing the dishes and she dries them and puts them away and he likes the way this feels. Like a preview of things to come, somehow.

\---

            Fall gives way to winter and cold nights cuddling on the couch with a blanket, holding hands through mittens, rosy cheeks and the holidays.

            The shop always gets busier in the cold months and the end of the year means the end of the term means finals. Rose brings him dinner when he spends nights cooped up in the lab and drags him to bed when he starts falling asleep at his desk.

            They get a Christmas tree for her flat and spend a night decorating it and decide they’ll spend Christmas night at hers as well, and the day with her family.

            Christmas morning they wake up early and spend a while talking and cuddling in bed. He’s spent the last few Christmases alone. It’s nice to have someone to share it with now. They exchange gifts and go to the cemetery to leave flowers on Rose’s dad’s grave, and then they spend the day at her parents’ house.

            It’s strange, to drive to the house and get out of the car he owns and help Rose grab a stack of gifts from the trunk. To sit with Rose on the couch, holding her hand and grinning as her family opens said gifts, to receive gifts from them, to help Pete carry food from the kitchen to the dining room, to be told by Jackie to stand with Rose in front of the tree for a picture. It’s all so thoroughly domestic and he finds he loves it, all of it. He feels like a grown up, and once that would have terrified him but with Rose’s hand in his he can’t think of what could be better.

\---

            He doesn’t buy a ring.

            He just browses.

            (He doesn’t buy a ring because he hasn’t found one yet.)

\---

            On New Year’s Eve they get into an argument because she wants to go out with Jack and Mickey and Shireen and Jake but he has work in the morning and would rather they just stay in. And she promises they’ll come home right after midnight but he knows they’ll be out until at least two and he tells her if she really wants to go so much to just go without him, then, he’ll stay at his place.

            And it’s such a stupid argument, really, but of course he drags it out by saying how they always spend time with her friends and can’t they have this one night just the two of them? And she says they always spend time together, she hardly ever sees her friends, and he asks if she wants more space then and she tells him not to be stupid and of course he bristles at that and eventually she retreats to the bedroom and doesn’t quite slam the door but doesn’t just close it, either, and he sits on the couch and sulks for a bit.

            After a few minutes Rose comes out and sits with him and apologizes for storming out and says of course they can just stay in, she knows he’s got an early morning, and he kisses her and tells her they can go out with her friends but can they please, please leave by 12:30. And she kisses him and says of course.

\---

            The first words he says in 2006 are “I love you, Rose Tyler.”

            Hers are “I love you, Doctor.”

            And they leave the pub at 12:06 to ring in the New Year on their own, and he’s 15 minutes late to work and Donna glares at him but otherwise doesn’t comment.

\---

            Rose walks into the shop and it’s January first and she smiles at him and he draws her name on a cup with a heart next to it and she kisses him over the counter and a year has passed.

            She spends the day with her mum while he works and when he gets home she’s already there cooking dinner.

            He smiles.

\---

            There were marks on his skin and a calendar on his wall but most nights he spends at Rose’s and the calendar is old now and he forgets to mark his arms most days and sometimes she traces them but mostly she leaves them alone. There was a number on his hip but that’s gone now and time is passing but he is with Rose and he’s happy and he forgets, sometimes, that it could reset. He forgets, sometimes, what day it is, because everyday he wakes up with Rose Tyler and it means he’s okay.

\---

            He wakes up to Rose’s alarm. He reaches over and shuts it off.

            “Morning,” she mumbles sleepily.

            “Morning.”

            “It’s early, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah. Let’s go back to bed.”

            She laughs softly.

            “Good plan.”

            He pulls her closer, kisses her forehead.

            “You’ve got class today, right?”

            “Teaching, yeah. Then I’ve got some stuff to do in the lab, so I’ll probably be home late.”

            “Want me to bring you dinner?”

            “Nah, that’s all right, I’ll manage.”

            “Make sure you eat, though.”

            “I will.”

            They lie there a few more minutes.

            “I should get up. Donna will kill me if I’m late again.”

            Rose chuckles and kisses him as he gets up, but otherwise doesn’t move.

            He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, gets dressed. When he’s all ready Rose is still in bed. He leans over and kisses her again.

            “You should get up now or you’ll be late, too.”

            “Yeah.”

            She sits up, stretches. He sits on the edge of the bed and ties his trainers.

            “Love you. See you at the shop?”

            She nods and grabs his tie to pull him in for a kiss.

            “Love you. Save me a muffin.”

            He grins.

            “Of course.”

            He gives her one final kiss before heading to work.

\---

            Weekdays Donna opens and he joins her an hour later because the shop isn’t usually crowded that early, but when he walks in there’s a queue and Donna looks harried and he throws on his apron and jumps in.

            The crowd doesn’t let up, either, it’s an almost steady stream of customers and he completely loses track of time. At one point it occurs to him that Rose should’ve been in by now but she probably didn’t have time to stop. That’s happened a few times. They take too long in the mornings and she doesn’t stop by the shop on her way to work. He keeps a muffin set aside for her anyway.

            He almost doesn’t register the phone ringing. When he does notice he goes to pick it up but Donna grabs it while waiting for something to blend. He returns to the customer in front of him and then Donna’s tapping his shoulder and handing him the phone.

            “It’s for you,” she says, and he apologizes to the customer and steps aside to take it.

            “Hello?”

            “ _John? It’s Pete._ ”

            Why is Pete—

            “ _There’s—there’s been an accident._ ”

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

_and I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never have lain beside at all_

\---

            He loses time after the call.

            It all goes blank.

            He doesn’t remember leaving the shop, or hanging up the phone, or getting to the hospital. One moment he was standing behind the counter and the next Jackie is sobbing onto his shoulder and he doesn’t know what happened in between.

            The doctors won’t tell him anything because he’s not family, and they won’t let him or anyone in to see her—he hears words like _emergency surgery_ and _just in time_ and he wants to shout at someone that clearly it was not _just in time_ because if time had been on _anyone’s_ side she wouldn’t be a fucking hospital bed right now.

            He doesn’t shout, though, nor does he cry, because Jackie is a wreck and Pete is trying to comfort her and he doesn’t need to be one more person for them to worry about. He gets coffee and brings food from the cafeteria and touches none of it. Mostly it goes cold.

            He draws the line at picking Tony up from school. He will _not_ leave the hospital and he will _not_ be the one to tell Tony. After some discussion it’s decided Pete will go, leaving Jackie and John in the waiting room, cold coffee and sandwiches between them.

            “She’s strong, my daughter. Always has been. She’ll—she’ll pull through.”

            She’s not saying it for his benefit; she’s saying it for hers.

            Everything hurts.

            “I’m sorry,” he says.

            She lets out a dark laugh.

            “First my Pete, now—”

            She doesn’t finish. He lets her cry into his shoulder.

            He can’t do this.

\---

            “ _Any word?_ ”

            “No.”

            “ _How are you holding up?_ ”

            “How do you think.”

            Pause.

            “ _I know it looks bad but there’s still a chance—_ ”

            He loses her.

            “Yeah.”

            He can’t keep the emotion in his throat. It bubbles up into his words and his eyes are stinging and he hangs up.

_\---_

            The doctors have said they can see her now. The surgery went well, but they’re still monitoring her closely. One visitor at a time. Initially they said only family, but at the look on John’s face an exception was made.

            Jackie goes first, of course. Pete and John sit side by side. Pete’s only just got back from getting Tony, dropping him at a friend’s. He looks tired.

            “You made her happy.”

            _She’s not dead_.

            “She makes me happy, too.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            _She’s not dead._

            They fall back into silence. John doesn’t trust himself to speak. Jackie comes out and goes straight to Pete. Pete nods at him.

            “You go.”

            John nods.

            _She’s not dead._

He walks into her room.

            _Yet._

            There’s a chair by her bed, and he goes straight to it. Sits. Takes her hand. It’s not covered in bandages, but most of the rest of her is.

            He didn’t pay attention to the details. A car hit her and drove away. Someone saw it and called in. And now here she is. He heard words like _fractured_ and _punctured_ and _internal bleeding_ , _broken_ and _knocked out_.

            He’s not a particularly violent man but he would murder whoever was driving that car without a second thought.

            He holds onto her hand. Clears his throat.

            “Hey.”

            She doesn’t respond. It shouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it does.

            “I, um. I saved you a muffin this morning. So you should—”

            He drops his head to the bed. Catches his breath.

            “Please.”

            He squeezes her hand. No response.

            He’s never been good at this. There have always been so many things he’s wanted to tell her, but the sentence structure eluded him, the words stuck on the tip of his tongue.

            But he tries. (He always tries, for her.)

            “I used to think—I never wanted—but—things were dark and you made me smile again. And the highlight of my day would be seeing you. And—and I found a word I like. I’ve been looking for—but I haven’t found—but I’ll keep—”

            Two days in the future, a time stream months and months in the past that doesn’t even exist anymore, she dies in this room.

            He has to believe that time can be rewritten.

            He stands.

            “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here, as much as they let me.”

            He kisses her forehead.

            “I love you.”

\---

            Time passes. He drinks a cup of coffee. They aren’t allowed to stay in Rose’s room for more than thirty minutes at a time. He alternates shifts with Jackie. Pete goes home to take care of Tony. Mickey and Shireen and Jack—even Jake—hold vigil with them. Donna comes by at one point. Forces John to eat.

            “Donna?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I don’t know how to go back.”

            “What?”

            “If she—I don’t know how to go back to how it was before her.”

            “She’s going to pull through.”

            He nods.

            _She has to_ , he thinks. _Because I can’t go back now_.

\---

            He thinks it’s Friday afternoon. He sits with Rose and holds her hand. Sometimes he talks to her but that’s—

            He holds her hand.

\---

            Saturday morning the doctors tell them that she’s better. That one person at a time can be in the room, consistently.

            Jackie goes, of course, and he drinks shitty hospital coffee and tells himself this must be a good sign.

            He hasn’t slept since he got the news.

            He’s afraid to try.

\---

            Saturday afternoon he sits with her. Pete came, forced Jackie to go home, take a shower, maybe nap. Assured her that John was there, he wouldn’t leave. Rose would be fine.

            So now he gets to sit with Rose and listen to the machines and watch her breathe and wait for her to squeeze his hand back.

            Today in a time stream that never happened months and months in the past she died but she’s _not_ dead, she’s breathing, he can see it, he can feel her pulse, she’s _real_ and _alive_ and he’s not going anywhere.

            And even if—

            He won’t sleep because if he sleeps it might reset and he can’t—he would rather lose her than wake up and lose everything, not knowing if she would have survived. It doesn’t matter that it would be another chance. He doesn’t want to lose _this_ —this life he’s built with her. Until—unless she—

            He’s not going anywhere.  

            “It’s Saturday, Rose. We didn’t have anything planned for today—no reservations to cancel so that’s—that’s good.”

            He rubs his thumb on the back of her hand. She doesn’t stir. It doesn’t surprise him. It still hurts.

            “This morning Pete said that some church called, said they’re praying for you. And that’s all well and good, but me, I’ve never been one for faith. God, religion. I’ve seen—I’ve seen a lot of it. And I don’t believe—I don’t believe in any of that.” He kisses the back of her hand. “But if I believe in anything, I believe in you. And I know that you—that you won’t just—that you’ll—”

            He squeezes her hand.

            “I love you.”

            She squeezes back.

\---

            The doctors tell them she’s out of the woods. Stable. Should wake up any time. She hit her head but, fortunately, there was no internal damage there. They don’t suspect there will be any memory loss.

            He would probably murder someone if she woke up not knowing him. It seems like the sort of thing the universe would do to him, but the universe let her live so he’s not going to go provoking it.

            Pete makes him go home. Shower, shave, sleep. They’ll stay with her.

            But he promised—

            “Go. That way you don’t keel over before she wakes up.”

            So he goes home. His flat is cold and dark and there’s a post-it on the fridge that she left about needing to buy more milk and the dam breaks and he falls apart in his kitchen. Because she’s _alive_ but she almost wasn’t and how—what—

            He makes a sandwich and forces himself to finish it. Takes a shower. Shaves. Rose said once she liked his stubble, but he feels cleaner without it.

            He climbs into bed and he can’t remember the last time he fell asleep without her. His pillow smells like her shampoo.

            He falls asleep.

\---

            He wakes up.

            The calendar is still on the wall.

            He goes to the hospital.

\---

            Sunday afternoon she wakes up. His face is the first face she sees.

            She smiles.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

 

            “I’m bored.”

            “You only have one more day here, then you can go home.”

            “Have you all agreed then?”

            He sighs.

            It’s been six weeks since the accident. Rose’s recovery has been going well, though. Yesterday they removed the cast from her leg so she’ll be starting up physical therapy soon, and there were no infections after her surgery. The internal injuries in her abdomen have been declared healed. Most of the bruises and cuts have faded away by now, too. But the closer it got to her release from the hospital, the more they’d had to think—logistically—about what would happen next. Jackie was insistent that Rose move in with them temporarily, so she could take care of her. John was just as insistent that Rose come with _him_ —her flat or his, he didn’t care. Jackie brought up the fact that he worked, had class. What if Rose needed something?

            “I’ll stay home for a few weeks,” he’d said.

            “You’ve already missed weeks,” she’d replied.

            Which was only half true. He missed—he missed about a week. Approximately. Then Rose all but forced him to go back to work, back to school.

            (“I’m fine.”)

            (“But—”)

            (“You’re gonna fall behind.”)

            (“Rose—”)

            (“I’m not going anywhere. I’m all right. I’ll still be here when you get off work.”)

            The hospital staff won’t let him stay overnight, though. Partly because he’s not family (he fucking _hates_ that, by the way, he loves her just as much as Jackie and Pete so why should it matter) and partly because it’s against policy or whatever. So every night he kisses Rose good night and goes back to his flat and falls asleep terrified and wakes up panicking before calming down long enough to get through the day and do the same thing all over again.

            Rose is being released tomorrow and he and Jackie still haven’t agreed on where Rose is staying. She wants to be with him but she understands where her mum is coming from, too.

            Now she reaches out her hand, brushes his cheek.

            “You’ve got bags under your eyes. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

            “I am,” he responds. “I just—I miss you.”

            She smiles softly.

            “I miss you, too.”

            They haven’t talked about it, not really. She woke up and saw him and smiled and it was like all the color bled back into the world, like for four days everything had gone greyscale but she woke up and everything was okay again. And it was a flurry of doctors and her mum and he just sat there, holding her hand, refusing to let go until they kicked him out for the night so he went, pressing a firm but tender kiss to her lips before he did.

            And now time has passed and they’ve had opportunities—plenty of opportunities—to talk about what happened, but of course they haven’t. He doesn’t tell her about the time he spent in the waiting room with her mother, about sitting beside her bed and wondering if she was going to wake up. The words he said when she was too gone to hear.

            He hasn’t asked her about the accident, either. He wonders if she’s had nightmares. He would know if he could stay with her but she’s always awake when he’s around, and she hasn’t mentioned them but that doesn’t mean—

            He tilts his head. Kisses her palm.

            “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            She’s going to go home with Jackie. He knows it. He could continue to fight but he’s going to lose. He’s so tired. He wants to sleep and not worry.

            A nurse comes by. Gives him the look that means it’s time for him to leave. He sighs and stands.

            “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says.

            “I know.”

            He kisses her.

            “Good night. I love you.”

            “Love you. Try to get some sleep, yeah?”

            He nods. Lets go of her hand. Grabs his coat and starts to leave.

            “Doctor?”

            He turns back to her. He’s looking forward to not seeing her in a hospital bed anymore.

            “I’ll be home soon,” she says. She smiles, and he returns it as best he can. Leaves.

            (They don’t talk about it, but it’s always there.)

\---

            He’s growing used to sleeping alone again. It’s not a thing he enjoys relearning.

            He stays up late into the night, doing work for his classes. Everyone’s been great about the whole thing. They understand. But still. He has work that needs to get done if he ever wants to finish this program.

            As he falls asleep every night he thinks of Rose. Of the accident. There aren’t words for how glad he is that she’s alive, but he has no idea why. What changed between this time stream and his original one.

            He wonders if he’ll ever know.

\---

            “I brought you a muffin.”

            It was decided that he would get Rose from the hospital and drop her off at Jackie’s—though if they think he’s just going to leave, then, well. Because he’s not. He’ll be staying the night, whether Jackie likes it or not.

            He helps Rose get dressed. The cast is off but they’re letting her keep the crutches for now. She’s still a bit unsteady on her feet.

            She kisses him, smiling. “And it’s not even Thursday.”

            “Well. You’ve missed the last few.”

            She looks away.

            He hates himself. He hates this. He wants to tell her how glad he is that she’s alive. That everything in his flat reminds him of her, that he has no idea what he would’ve done, that he didn’t sleep for three days because he was afraid he would wake up and she would be gone, he was afraid he would wake up and have lost everything. He wants to tell her that he’s been looking for a ring for months, that every week he sets aside a muffin for her, that he can barely sleep anymore because she’s not there with him. He wants to tell her that she is his home, not a flat or a mortgage or carpets. Just her. And for four days he had to wrestle with the possibility that, one way or another, he could lose her.

            Sometimes he wants to explain the time loop. Days like this. Other times he doesn’t. Wants to forget it even exists.

            “I’m sorry,” she says. His heart twists.

            “Don’t—I wasn’t—you have nothing to apologize for.”

            “I scared you.”

            “You can’t help that.”

            “No?”

            “I’m in love with you, Rose. I’m always going to—things can always happen and I will always—but that’s not on you.”

            He pulls her into his arms. God, he’s missed her.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

            “For what?”

            _For not being there._

_For not protecting you._

_For not even realizing anything was wrong until Pete called._

            She seems to sense it, his guilt. She kisses him softly.

            “It’s not your fault.”

            Then why does it feel like it is?

\---

            He doesn’t tell Jackie he’s staying and she doesn’t tell him to leave. He and Rose arrive at the house and he helps her into the living room and then carries the bag of Rose’s things he packed for her to her (their) room. Mostly she sits on the couch and watches telly and talks with Tony, who’s not quite sure how to handle the situation. John sits with her and distracts Tony and tells him stories and tries to make him laugh. Mostly he’s successful.

            When Rose starts yawning he all but carries her to their room and they get ready for bed and it doesn’t matter that it’s only 8:00. It’s been a long, tiring day. She lies down and he fits himself around her, careful of her leg and her stomach. (He knows they’re healed—healing—but he won’t risk hurting her.)

            “I love you, Rose Tyler,” he says, giving her a soft kiss.

            “I love you, Doctor,” she murmurs sleepily.

            He falls asleep.

\---

            He wakes up. Rolls onto his side. Rose is already awake, facing him. He slings an arm over her, carefully. He needs to be touching her. He needs that reassurance right now.

            “Can I ask you something?”

            “Anything.”

            “You look at me sometimes like I might disappear. Like you might never see me again. Why?”

            “You almost died, Rose.”

            “You did it before, though. I didn’t understand it, then. Didn’t recognize it.”

            He takes one of her hands. Laces their fingers.

            “I know what it’s like to lose everything,” he says.

            _I’ve lost you approximately 75 times_ , he wants to say. _A hundred times. Two hundred. The marks on my skin are the days I’ve spent with you. I keep losing track._

            _I know what it’s like to lose everything because for a long time I would wake up every day and lose you._

            “You’re not gonna lose me.”

            _I always lose you._

            “Doctor.”

            He looks at her.

            “Promise?”

            She kisses him.

            “Promise.”

\---

            She does have nightmares. They wake him up and he wakes her up and he holds her and soothes her and they fall asleep again.

            They happen less frequently, now.

\---

            “I hate hospitals,” he tells her one night as they lie together in bed.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods.

            “Before, or—”

            “Always.” Pause. “I didn’t leave, though.”

            “No?”

            He shakes his head.

            “Pete made me go home Saturday night. Few hours. Showered. Napped. Went right back.”

            “What did you do?”

            “Wait. Sometimes they let me sit with you.”

            “Did you talk to me?”

            “Sometimes.”

            “What did you say?”

            He looks down at their joined hands and doesn’t answer. Rose strokes his hand with her thumb.

            “I love you,” she says.

            “I love you.”

            “I missed this, when I was there. And they wouldn’t let you stay. I’d make sure to stay awake all day, so I’d fall asleep as soon as you left. So I didn’t notice as much.”

            He pulls her closer. She nuzzles her head into the crook of his neck. He can feel her breath on his skin and his eyes slide closed. 

\---

            He takes her out for chips in the blue car. She smiles and holds his hand, and it feels normal. It feels like before.

\---

            The doctors clear her. Good as new. Walking has gotten easier, and she still gets tired (they tell her she shouldn’t go back to work yet, give it another month at least), but otherwise everything is fine.

            They leave Jackie’s and go to his flat. He drops her off first, then goes to pick up Chinese.

            They sit on the couch and watch telly and eat their food, and she rests her head on his shoulder and they bicker about what show to watch and she kisses him to shut him up and they don’t even make it to the bedroom.

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm. He reaches over, shuts it off. Rose mumbles something.

            “Hmm?”

            “Too early.”

            “Mmm. Five more minutes?”

            “’Kay.”

            She snuggles closer to him and he smiles.

            “Love you.”

            “Love you, too.”

            “We could just call in sick.”

            “Good plan. But no. We should go to work.”

            “ _Rose_ —”

            She kisses him.

            “We should get up now.”

            “Yeah, okay,” he says.

            There’s a box stuffed in a pair of his socks and Rose hasn’t slept at her flat in weeks and Jackie cried when he asked her blessing and he is _happy_ , so happy here with her.

            “Rose?”

            “Yeah?” says as she heads to the bathroom.

            “I love you.”

            She just smiles.

\---

            Saturday he sneaks out before she wakes up. Well, she sort of mumbles when he gets up, but he tells her to go back to sleep and she does.

            He leaves a note in case she does get up before he returns, and then he heads to the shop to pick up their coffee. Well, make their coffee.

            “I’ve been doing this for quite some time, Doctor,” Donna says.

            “I know, but I need to do this,” he says, writing on the cup.

            “What are you doing writing on it for? You really going to forget whose is whose?”

            He doesn’t answer, just finishes writing, pours the coffee, and grabs two muffins before he goes.

            “Wish me luck,” he says.

            “With _what?_ ” Donna calls after him.

\---

            When he gets back to the flat Rose is still asleep. He takes off his coat and toes off his trainers, setting the coffees and muffins on the stand and grabbing the box out of his sock drawer before climbing into bed with her.

            “Morning,” he says, cuddling up behind her.

            “Morning,” she says on a yawn, turning to face him. “You’re up early.”

            “Went and got coffee.”

            She smiles and kisses him and he hopes he doesn’t appear as nervous as he feels. His heart is pounding and he has to remind himself to breathe.

            She sits up and he sits up with her, handing her her cup and muffin.

            “Muffin, too? Is it my birthday?”

            “It’s a good day,” he says.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods. Sips his own coffee. Waits.

            “Donna make these?”

            “No, I did. Went behind the counter. On my day off, too.”

            She nods. Takes a bite of her muffin. He’s not, generally, a patient man, but he can be for Rose. So he sits, drinking his coffee, eating his banana nut muffin, waiting for her to notice—

            “Did you write on here, or was that Donna?”

            “That was me.”

            Pause.

            “We never did agree, did we, on what—um. On what we call each other. I mean, I know you’ve grown rather attached to beau, but I never quite—but I’d like to give this one a go. If you want.”

            He pulls the ring box out of his pocket. Sets it on the bed next to her.

            Waits.

            Inwardly he starts to panic. Why hasn’t she said anything? There’s no way he’s read this wrong so what—

            Suddenly he’s being yanked by his tie and her lips are on his and that will never _not_ be his favorite thing and—

            “So are you gonna ask me or what?”

            He grins.

            “Rose Tyler, will you marry me?”

            “Yes.”

            He kisses her again.

\---

            “I’m still going to call you Rose Tyler, you know.”

            “Good. I like when you call me that.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “The Doctor and Mrs. Smith.”

            “I like it.”

            “Me, too.”

            “How long were you—”

            “Months. Before the accident.”

            “Really?”

            “Is it really that surprising?”

            “No, I just—I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            _More than you know_.

\---

            They spend the day at the flat. He makes dinner and she teases him and they don’t tell anyone, yet, deciding to keep it for themselves for a little while, at least.

            It’s a lazy day but those are his favorite days, when they get to just be, together, sitting on the couch or lying in bed, talking or not.

            She won’t let him throw the cup away, either.

            (“We can’t keep it forever, Rose.”)

            (“Just let me have a couple days, okay?”)

            (“Okay.”)

            He falls asleep with Rose in his arms, her breath against his skin, her legs tangled with his.

\---

            _café mocha. non-fat. extra shot. w whipped cream_

_The Doctor’s Wife_

\---

            He wakes up to his alarm.

            There’s something disorienting about it, though. He’s pretty sure—no. But he’s—he thinks he dreamt. Which is funny, because he hasn’t dreamt in—well, years, probably. Not since—

            He tries to remember the details but everything is fuzzy and growing fuzzier by the second and blimey that alarm’s irritating. He reaches over, shuts it off, reaches for Rose. Except—

            Except he’s alone.

            _Please no._

            He looks at the wall.

            The calendar is gone.

            It feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him, like someone punched him straight in the gut—he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling and tells himself to breathe. Breathe.

            But how—he— _everything—_ memories and moments and _Rose_ are flashing through his mind and he shuts his eyes against the onslaught but that only makes it worse, his chest is constricting and the fucking calendar is gone and he swears to God if it starts to fucking snow he will just—

            He lost her.

            _Fuck_.

            But she promised.  

            “You up yet?”

            He jolts up.

            “Rose?”

            Is this what a heart attack feels like because there’s no way it can be healthy to have his heart beating so fast, but she’s there, she’s real, she’s standing in the doorway in her pajamas—well, that’s his shirt she’s wearing but it looks better on her—and she’s holding a cup and smiling at him and the ring he gave her is still on her finger and _thank God_.

            She chuckles.

            “Who else would I be?” she asks, walking over to the bed. She sets the cup down by the alarm clock and he pulls her onto the bed with him because he needs that reassurance that she’s here, she’s alive, she’s _real_ , he hasn’t lost her. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes deeply and she rubs circles on his back and his heart rate begins to return to normal.

            “Did you have a bad dream?” she asks.

            “Something like that.”

            He pulls back just enough to kiss her. He feels her smile into it and he just—God, he loves her.

            “Hi,” he says, a little shyly. He knows he does this sometimes—wakes up scared, latches onto Rose and doesn’t let her go for a little while. She never comments on it, just holds onto him, kisses him back, waits for him calm down.

            “Hi,” she says, softly, bringing up a hand to cup his cheek.

            She smiles at him and he kisses her again, deeper this time, pushing her back onto the bed and hovering over her. She spears her hands through his hair and she is _real,_ she is _here_ , it hasn’t reset, he hasn’t lost her, everything is okay.

            He lies back down and she curls into him, her head on his chest, absently tracing things onto his stomach.

            “I made you coffee this morning,” she says after a pause.

            “Yeah?”

            She nods.

            “One day you’re not gonna work in the shop anymore, and I’m gonna make you your coffee and pour it in the thermos and kiss you before you go to work. I’m practicing.”

            He closes his eyes against the onslaught of images—the future he wants, the future they’re going to have, him and her and—           

            “Did you take the calendar down?” he asks suddenly.

            “Yeah. It’s old, don’t know why you still keep it up. We can get a new one, you know.”

            He nods. He has a feeling he doesn’t need it anymore. For the first time in a long time he dreamt, and that must mean something. He places a kiss to the side of her head.

            “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            He smiles. This must be what contentment feels like.

            “Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” she says, untangling herself from him, giving him a quick peck before leaving the room.

            He gets up, grabs the coffee she left for him, and follows her into the kitchen. He leans against the doorframe, sipping from his cup, watching her as she starts breakfast.

            “Rose?”

            “Yeah?” she says absently.

            “How long are you going to stay with me?” he asks.

            “Forever,” she responds without a second thought.  

            He smiles.

            “Promise?”

            She looks up at him this time. Smiles.

            “Yeah. I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story. Thank you for the feedback and the messages and the support. I never expected it to be so well received, and I’m so glad you guys like it. Thanks.
> 
> There’s going to be an epilogue to this. I was talking with re-sile, my beta, who had requested a scene alluded to in this chapter as a short fic, which then led to several ‘outtakes.’ When I sent her one of them, she said, “This should be the epilogue.” And I looked at it and decided, yeah, that’s a good idea. So, epilogue tomorrow. There are a few other outtakes that’ll be uploaded as well. If there’s a scene you’d like to see, or a moment from the story in Rose’s POV, let me know. I don’t quite want to let them go yet. Thanks for reading.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a bunch of extra scenes/outtakes planned/written, so. This is the end of this story, but not this universe. Thanks for reading.

            One day, after the marks have faded and he’s stopped adding new ones, after the number on his hip disappears and the calendar on the wall is forgotten and never replaced, she asks him what it all meant.

            “What were you keeping track of?”

            He didn’t answer right away and she’d started to believe he wasn’t going to, when he smiled softly at her and replied, “You.”

\---

            She didn’t notice the marks for a long time. He always wore oxfords and he always wore them with the sleeves down, as oxfords are meant to be worn. Even in the summer he never rolled up his shirt sleeves and she wondered, sometimes, if he was hiding something. She suspected scars.

            There was once when he got sick and she took care of him, and she noticed the marks then. Some fresh, some fading, some barely there. He was in no mood for any sort of conversation so she didn’t ask, and she almost forgot about them, until Scotland. Lying there with him, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, his hand in hers.

            “I’m keeping track,” he’d told her when she asked, but she hadn’t inquired further. He hadn’t seemed keen on continuing that line of questioning, so she let it go.

            As their relationship progressed—as she became more acquainted with his skin—she noticed how many there were. Sharpie lines covering his arms and stomach. A number on his hip. She traced them sometimes, but never asked. He never offered. It was part of him, somehow. Sometimes he would add new lines and she always noticed and always wondered but she could tell it was a sensitive subject. She knew, somehow, that he didn’t want to talk about it.

            Whenever she would trace the number he would shiver, and he always kissed her harder, held her closer, and she didn’t understand why.

            She’s spent nearly four years with him now. Some mornings he still wakes up scared, reaching for her, holding her tight like she might disappear. It happens less frequently than it used to, though, which she thinks is a good sign.

            Whatever he was keeping track of, he stopped some time ago. It took her a while to notice that he wasn’t adding marks anymore; slowly she watched the ink fade from his skin. Sometimes she kisses the spot where that number used to be.

            She doesn’t know how to describe the look he gets when she does.

\---

            “What?” she asks.

            He drops his eyes, a faint blush creeping up on his cheeks, and what can he possibly mean by that?

            She remembers—it crossed her mind, once. That the marks might have something to do with her. But the timelines didn’t make sense. The number, the marks—there were too many for it to be the days he’d spent with her. He was keeping track before they started dating, officially, and before they said ‘I love you.’ Some part of her had hoped that the marks were related to her, but she knew that they couldn’t possibly be.

            He’s still not looking at her, instead focusing on her hand in his. Playing with her fingers.

            “Doctor?”

            “I—when we first met—“ he stops. Takes a deep breath. “The first time you met me wasn’t the first time I met you.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “I don’t know how to explain it.”

            “Try.”

            He brings her hand up to his face, kisses her fingers.

            “For a year I served you coffee at the shop. Over a year.”

            “Yes, what—”

            “Let me—just, let me talk, all right?”

            And he’s so serious, so quiet, and it’s scaring her a little and she just wants him to explain. He’s waiting for her to respond, though, so she nods. He smiles a small smile and she loves him. But the way he’s acting is making her nervous and she’s suddenly afraid of what he’s going to say.

            “For a year I served you coffee,” he repeats, “but we never spoke. Beyond hellos and goodbyes and polite conversation.”

            She’s about to interrupt him again because that’s _not_ true, but he’s giving her this look like, _you promised you’d let me talk_. So she nods again and he continues.

            “And then one day you didn’t come in anymore.”

            And he looks so _sad_ —

            “And I read in the paper—there’d been an accident.”

            Her heart stops.

            “And a few days later, you died.”

            _What?_

What is he even—is he serious? Is he messing with her? But he’s never looked so solemn and no, he’s not kidding around. But he’s talking again.

            “And then one day I woke up, and I went to work—and there you were. And it was like a second chance or something.”

            “Doctor _—_ ”

            “I’m not—I’m not finished yet,” he says, and something in the way he’s looking at her makes her want to cry or kiss him or both. He takes a deep breath.

            “Somehow—I don’t—I still don’t understand it, but for some reason, some twist of—I don’t even know—I woke up on January 1, 2005.”

            He looked so sad back then. She remembers—

            “And I kept waking up on January first.”

            “What?”

            “It—every night I would fall asleep and every morning I would wake up and it would be the first again. Sometimes, though, I made it past the first. A few days. A week. Sometimes a couple weeks, even. But it always, always reset.”

            “Reset?”

            “Whenever I woke up on January first again. I called it a reset.”

            There’s no way—no way this is real. He must’ve—clearly it’s something he made up in his head, something—but no, she won’t push him away, she’ll let him explain, she’ll—she’s spent four years with him, she’s made him promises, in sickness and in health, in—

            She’ll listen. Suspend judgment until he’s finished. He’s her husband; she can give him that much, at least.

            “And did that—did it happen a lot?”

            He just nods.

            “And what—what happened? In the other—”

            “Sometimes we talked. A few times I took you on dates.” He pauses and lowers his eyes.

            “Doctor?”

            “Once we were together,” he mumbles, and her heart breaks. Whether or not this was all in his head he looks so—

             She brings her hand up to his cheek, feels the stubble there. He doesn’t say anything still, and she kisses him, softly, slowly. _It’s okay._

            “Why the marks?” she asks, pulling back but just barely.

            “Whenever it reset, everything would—it went back to how it had been, exactly. I bought a calendar and I would mark the days but if it reset it would disappear, so I started keeping track on myself. If I drew a line on my arm and it reset, the line would still be there when I woke up.” He shrugs. “I needed to make sure I wasn’t crazy.”

            _Oh, Doctor_.

            “How many times?”

            He shrugs. “I lost track. I would—I marked it but—but sometimes I would forget, or I let them fade because I thought—and then it reset again. So I drew them back and I counted and—and I started all over.”

            And it’s ridiculous, it’s impossible—different time streams, one where she died, others where—it makes no sense, sounds like the plot of a film or something—in fact, she’s pretty sure she’s _seen_ that film, he’s—if this is a joke it isn’t funny and she wants to hit him for scaring her like this but he’s not laughing, he’s looking at her like he’s waiting for her to shout at him or storm out and—

            And yet—and yet she knows he isn’t lying. Four years with him, she _knows_ ; he has a terrible poker face. She knows this isn’t a story he’s just made up, isn’t—

            And ridiculous or not, it _feels_ true, somehow.

            And it would explain so much.

            “When we first—you barely spoke to me those first few weeks.”

            He nods.

            “Because you’d already lost—”

            He nods.

            And she remembers how sad he used to look, how tentative he was—how he’d look at her like he—

            “Tell me something—tell me something I told you. In one of the—”

            “You don’t believe me.”

            “Can you blame me?”

            He shakes his head.

            “I want to. But you have to—”

            “I knew about your dad before you told me.”

            “Doctor.”

            “Our first first date, you told me he’d died when you were a baby. This time around, when you told me about your family you didn’t mention him, just Pete, your step-dad, and I didn’t ask what happened to your dad because you’d already told me and I forgot I wasn’t supposed to know yet.”

            There’s no way she can know for sure. But she _does_ remember telling him about her family; she remembers him not asking about her dad. She’d assumed it was out of respect for her privacy, that he was giving her an out, like if she wanted to him she would but—

            “What else?”

            “Didn’t you think it was weird that I remembered where you lived?”

            She thinks back. The first time he walked her home—no, she’d led them—but the second time he came ‘round she hadn’t even had to tell him her address, had she? She’d assumed a good memory but—

            “Name something else.”

            She hates how sad his eyes are but he needs to understand how crazy this sounds, how much she _wants_ to believe him.

            “Please,” she adds, and she sees him soften.

            “Your favorite tea is chamomile.”

            “Yeah.”

            “When did you tell me that?”

            She opens her mouth to answer but—

            She can’t remember.

            “We’ve been married three years, Doctor, together for four, you must’ve—”

            “Rose.”

            A memory springs to mind. Before Scotland but after the pub with her friends. One of their Saturdays. She’d mentioned wanting tea and he’d gone for sandwiches and brought her back a cup of chamomile. When she’d said, “My favorite,” he’d responded, “I know.” She thought he was just—

            He’s serious, isn’t he? This is—this is _true_ , isn’t it? It explains—it explains the way he used to look at her. Even those early days—the first few weeks she went to the shop. When all he’d say was hello. She remembers how he would smile at her, how he looked at her with such—

            They’d never said more than five words to each other, then, but he looked at her like he loved her. And she hadn’t known, at the time, what to do with that. So she shoved it aside and forgot, or tried, and then they started up for real and—

            But he’s right. There are all these things—little things, things she never would’ve thought of but now—

            She’s sifting through memories of that first year, those first few weeks, _happy new year_ and _run_ and blueberry muffins and—

            _Oh._

            The first time they ever really—that day, he’d come by to bring her a blueberry muffin and she’d thought it was just a lucky guess; she’d never even ordered a blueberry muffin but he knew and she just let it go, but he—

            _Oh my God_.

            “Oh my God.”

            “Yeah.”

            But then—

            _Oh, Doctor._

            “I’m sorry,” she says, stroking his cheek. He turns his head and kisses her palm.

            “Not your fault.”

            “You spent dozens of lives—”

            He shakes his head.

            “No. Not dozens. Just one. I never made it past a month before this.”

            “No?”

            He shakes his head.

            “So you—you believe me?”

            She nods.

            “It sounds crazy—completely insane, but—but yeah. I do.”

            He smiles softly.

            Her heart is twisting because _so much_ about him makes sense now. So much of their relationship, his hang-ups—everything. He lost her, over and over. No wonder he holds her so tightly. A sudden terrifying thought hits her.

            “Is it still—could it still—”

            “No,” he says firmly. “No, that’s—it ended. Whatever it was, it’s over.”

            “You’re sure?”

            “Positive.”

            She nods.

            “When?”

            “After I proposed.”

            Memories of that morning come flooding back and oh, she loves him, and he was so nervous and so sweet and—

            He kisses her—just a peck—but she’s been with him long enough to know that sometimes he does these things to reassure himself. Sometimes he kisses her or grabs her hand or snuggles up next to her to ground himself. It all makes sense, now.

            “Remember the calendar?”

            She nods.

            “Remember how I kept it up, months after the new year? Wasn’t even useful anymore. I just—it was one of the things. One of my markers. I kept track by drawing lines on myself, but I put that calendar up so when I woke up I could check if I was still here.” He kisses her again. “It became less important after we got together. If I woke up next to you, I didn’t need to check the calendar.”

            “Doctor.”

            With this new knowledge she finds herself looking back, sifting through her memories of that first year and a half. The way he looked at her, the way he smiled at her, how broken he was when she didn’t believe he loved her. ( _God, how could I even—_ )

            How he would pull her closer when he first woke up, how he would reach for and come looking for her when she got up before him.

            How he was after the accident.

            _Oh._

            “I—in—before—I—”

            She can’t even bring herself to say the words, but he understands. Nods.

            “I didn’t—I lost track. I—I knew it was going to happen but it still—”

            “You thought—”

            He nods again. “I just hoped—and you did. You woke up, you got better and—”

            _And here we are_.

            “I love you,” she says, because she hasn’t said it recently and she needs him to know it, always but especially now. This wonderful, beautiful man who—after all of that—who still—

            “I love you, too,” he echoes. He gives her another kiss. “I’m glad I got to keep this one.”

            “I’m glad you did, too.” She pauses. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

            She can’t even _fathom_ what that must’ve been like. She’s barely wrapping her head around the fact that it’s true. It’s so—

            And she loves him all the more for it. Not just because he waited for her—went through so many attempts to get to this point—but because he’s trusting her with it. She knows him; she knows they could’ve spent their lives together and he could’ve never said, had she not asked. But he is, he’s telling her, he’s giving her this most fragile piece of himself, this one thing that could turn her away. She would never leave him, but—

            She kisses him to reassure him, or maybe it’s herself she’s comforting, and he kisses her back and pulls her closer and she can’t imagine losing this.

            “It wasn’t your fault,” he says quietly.

            “If I’d known—”

            “But you didn’t.”

            “You spent that first two years afraid?”

            “Not every day. Some days more than others.”

            “Yeah?”

            He nods. “After the accident—it was the worst, those weeks you were in the hospital.”

            She remembers how quiet he was back then. She thought it was just because of the accident; that made sense. Now—

            “You proposed and there was still a chance it could reset?”

            “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

            And how had he waited. He’d told her, he’d been planning it a few months, before the accident even. But he—she remembers that number, she remembers the marks on his skin, that was—that was _years­_ , probably, he waited for her.

            “I love you,” she says again, and she wishes there were more words, better words—wishes she could describe to him exactly how much—because it seems so inadequate. What do you say to the man who loved you through dozens of resets, as he called them? The man who waited for you, who never gave up on you—who loved you despite the knowledge that he could lose you?

            She rests her hand on his hip. Brushes her thumb where the number used to be. Feels him shiver at the touch.

            “How long are you going to stay with me?” he whispers.

            “ _Forever_.”


End file.
